“A word from you will send me away,” continued March, with manly dignity, “if you wish to dismiss me and the subject forever. I cannot stop loving you, but I can promise not to annoy you by telling you of a love you cannot receive.” “Annoy me!” repeated the poor, stiff lips. “_Annoy_ me! You must surely know, Mr. Gilchrist, that _that_ is not a word to be used by you to me!” “No?” coming a step nearer, eye kindling and voice softening. “You will let me try to overcome _indifference_, then—will you not?” In the depth of her distress she appreciated the adroit twist he gave her answer. The corners of the pale mouth stirred. Her strength was slipping from her. She must be brief and decisive. “If that were all”—looking courageously into the glowing eyes—“I would give a very different answer from the one you must accept without questioning. I know that I can never give any other, unprepared though I was for what you have said. There are reasons not immediately connected with myself why I ought not to think for a moment of—the matter you were speaking of. You have paid me the greatest compliment a man can offer a woman. But while my sister and the children need me as they do now I must not think of leaving them, and I see no prospect of their needing me less for years and years to come. My sister opened her house to me when I was orphaned and homeless. I owe her more than I could make you understand. She is peculiarly dependent upon me. Hester could not do without me. You have seen that. I cannot bear to think how she would suffer if I were to go away.” In her desire to deal gently and fairly with him she had made a concession fatal to the integrity of her cause. He laid hold of it at once. “Mrs. Wayt has a husband; the children have a father. He is a man in the prime of life, whose talents are approved by the Church. He is popular, and in the receipt of a good salary. Fairhill will probably remain Hester’s home for many years to come. If this is all that separates us—why, my darling——” The strangest expression flashed over her face—a wild ecstasy of joy that gave place, the next second, to anguish as wild. She put her hands over the tell-tale face, and bent her forehead upon her knees. “Don’t! oh, don’t!” she moaned. “This is too hard! too cruel! If you could only know all, you would not urge me! I did not think you could be so unkind!” “Unkind? To _you_, Hetty?” “No! no!” moved to tears by the hurt tone, and hurrying over the words. “You could never be _that_ to anybody—much less—I cannot say what I would!” March knelt down by her, and raised her head with tender authority she could not resist. He wiped the tears from her face with his own handkerchief; smiled down into the wet eyes. Loving intimacy with his mother and sister had taught him wondrously winsome ways.