Augusta collected her wits as well as she could. The man evidently did love her; there was no doubting the sincerity of his words, and she liked him and he was a gentleman. If she married him there would be an end of all her worries and troubles, and she could rest contentedly on his strong arm. Woman, even gifted woman, is not made to fight the world with her own hand, and the prospect had allurements. But while she thought, Eustace Meeson’s bonny face rose before her eyes, and, as it did so, a faint feeling of repulsion to the man who was pleading with her took form and colour in her breast. Eustace Meeson, of course, was nothing to her; no word or sign of affection had passed between them; and the probability was that she would never set her eyes upon him again. And yet that face rose up between her and this man who was pleading at her side. Many women, likely enough, have seen some such vision from the past and have disregarded it, only to find too late that that which is thrust aside is not necessarily hidden; for alas! those faces of our departed youth have an uncanny trick of rising from the tomb of our forgetfulness. But Augusta was not of the great order of opportunists. Because a thing might be convenient, it did not, according to the dictates of her moral sense, follow that it was lawful. Therefore, she was a woman to be respected. For a woman who, except under most exceptional circumstances, gives her instincts the lie in order to pander to her convenience or her desire for wealth and social ease, is not altogether a woman to be respected. In a very few seconds she had made up her mind. “I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Tombey,” she said; “you have done me a great honour, the greatest honour man can do to a woman; but I cannot marry you.” “Are you sure?” gasped the unfortunate Tombey, for his hopes had been high. “Is there no hope for me? Perhaps there is somebody else!” “There is nobody else, Mr. Tombey; and, I am sorry to say, you don’t know how much it pains me to say it, I cannot hold out any prospect that I shall change my mind.” He dropped his head upon his hands for a minute, and then lifted it again. “Very well,” he said slowly; “it can’t be helped. I never loved any woman before, and I never shall again. It is a pity “—(with a hard, little laugh)—“that so much first-class affection should be wasted. But, there you are; it is all part and parcel of the pleasant experiences which make up our lives. Good-bye, Miss Smithers; at least, good-bye as a friend!” “We can still be friends,” she faltered.