“I did know it, Lester, and I have always dreaded this. Oh, Lester!” she said, giving him her hands with a gesture of perfect frankness, “I do love you, for you are a noble man--I love you as dearly as I can ever love. But, Lester, I dare not love you in that way. For little Clinton’s sake, I must never marry again. Let me love you, Lester; let us be friends, dear friends. We will forget this, and you will never mention it again.” “Mention it again,” cried Conway passionately, “I must mention it again. I can not help it.” He drew her close to him, in spite of her feeble resistance. “You say you dare not love me, Norine, and yet you love me. What does it mean?” “It is for Clinton’s sake,” faltered Norine. “Can not you trust me to be a father to Clinton?” he asked reproachfully. “Not him--for his father’s sake,” stammered Norine, drawing herself away from him. “You do not know, Lester--you can not understand; but I must never marry again.” “Yet you love me?” “Yes,” she moaned; “I love you. But, oh! Lester, I can never marry you--I must not.” “You will not, you mean,” he said bitterly, as he turned away. She put her hand quietly upon his arm. “I am sorry, Lester,” she said, “but I could not help it, and--oh, don’t you understand?--I can not help it now! I dare not, for his sake.” Conway’s face worked convulsively, but he made no reply. He was deathly pale, and it required no words to tell the passion that was consuming him. “You will not leave me?” cried Norine pitifully. “I can not lose your friendship.” “You never shall, Norine,” he said huskily--“you never shall; but is there no hope?” Norine only shook her head sorrowfully. Conway turned sadly away. When he got to the door he turned to look at her. Norine ran to him, and put both arms around his neck. “My poor, dear brother!” she cried, and kissed him. There were pity and affection in that caress, but no hope, and Conway went out of the house a despairing man. On the next day there were two letters in the post office for Lester Conway, and one directed to Norine Darling, in his care. Conway opened his letters. The first was from a firm of lawyers in New York, and notified him as briefly as possible that he had been named as executor of the last will and testament of Miss Mary Darling, deceased, and that he was to file his bond and apply for letters of administration at once. The other letter was in a cramped female hand. It was very short. It simply said: “DOCTOR CONWAY: I think you are a good man, and I have asked you to see that my will is carried out according to my wishes. You have sufficient influence over my nephew and niece to get them to comply with my wishes. I have asked them both to resume their proper names. But I have no objection to having my niece change her name for yours.” This letter was dated nearly a year back, and was signed “Mary Darling.”