“To be married!” and in Oliver’s blue eyes there was a startled look. “Married to whom! Surely not to Lilian Veille? You would not marry her?” “Why not?” Lawrence asked, and before Oliver could answer, he continued: “I must talk to some one, Clubs, and I may as well make you my father confessor. You know I proposed to Mildred Howell? You know that she refused me?” Oliver bowed his head, and Lawrence continued: “She gave me no reason for her refusal, neither did she deign to answer either of the three letters I sent to her, begging of her to think again, or at least to tell me why I was rejected.” “Three letters,—she never told me of that. There is surely a mistake,” said Oliver, more to himself than to Lawrence, who rejoined: “There could be no mistake. She must have received some one of them, but she answered none, and in despair I went away, believing, as I now do, that we were all deceived and she loved another. Wait,—listen,” he said, as he saw Oliver about to interrupt him. “Father and Geraldine always wished me to marry Lilian, and until I learned how much I loved Mildred Howell, I thought it very likely I should do so.” There was a hard, defiant expression on his face as he said this, and, as if anxious to have the story off his mind, he hastened on: “Mildred refused me, and now, though I have not said positively that I would marry Lilian, I have given Geraldine encouragement to think I would, and have made up my mind that I shall do so. She is a gentle, amiable creature, and though not quite as intellectual as I could wish, she will make me a faithful, loving wife. Poor little thing. Do you know Geraldine thinks that her mind has been somewhat affected by my proposing to Mildred, and then going away?” Had it been Judge Howell listening, instead of Oliver, he would undoubtedly have said: “Thornton, you’re a fool!” but as it was, Oliver mildly interposed: “If I remember right, her mind was never very sound.” Lawrence did not seem at all angry, but replied: “I know she is not brilliant, but something certainly has affected her within the past few months. She used to write such splendid letters as to astonish me, but since I’ve been in Europe there’s a very perceptible difference. Indeed, the change was so great that I could not reconcile it until Geraldine suggested that her ill health and shattered nerves were probably the cause, and then I pitied her so much. There’s not a very wide step between pity and love, you know.” Lawrence paused, and sat intently watching the sunlight on the floor, while Oliver was communing with himself. “Shall I undeceive him, or shall I suffer him to rush on blindfolded, as it were? No, I will not. I saved him once for Mildred, and I’ll save him for her again.” Thus deciding, Oliver moved his chair nearer to Lawrence’s side, and said: “Did it ever occur to you that another than Lilian wrote her letters,—her old letters I mean, when she was in Charlestown, and at school at Beechwood?”