“You say you know me,” he cried, “and yet you think it possible that I could take advantage of this second mistake that your kind and sympathetic heart has made for your own undoing. Look there--there--into that glass, and see what a terrible mistake your heart has made.” He pointed to a long, narrow mirror between the windows. It reflected an exquisite face and figure by the side of a face on which long suffering and struggle, long years of hardship and toil, had left their mark--a figure attenuated by want and ill-health. “Look at that ludicrous contrast, my child,” he said, “and you will see what a mistake your heart has made. Have I not heard the jests which have been made when we were walking together? Have I not noticed the pain they gave you? Do you think me capable of increasing that pain in the future? Do you think me capable of bringing upon your family, who have been kinder than any living beings to me, the greatest misfortune that could befall them? Nay, nay, my dear child; you cannot think that I could be so base.” “I will not think of anything except that I love the man who is best worthy of being loved of all men in the world,” said she. “Ah, sir, cannot you perceive that your attitude toward me now but strengthens my affection for you?” “Mary--Mary--this is madness!” “Listen to me,” she said. “I feel that you return my affection; but I will put you to the test. If you can look into my face and tell me that you do not love me I will marry Colonel Gwyn.” There was another pause before he said-- “Have I not spoken once? Why should you urge me on to so painful an ordeal? Let me go--let me go.” “Not until you answer me--not until I have proved you. Look into my eyes, Oliver Goldsmith, and speak those words to me that you spoke just now.” “Ah, dear child----” “You cannot speak those words.” There was another long silence. The terrible struggle that was going on in the heart of that man whose words are now so dear to the hearts of so many million men and women, was maintained in silence. No one but himself could hear the tempter's voice whispering to him to put his arms round the beautiful girl who stood before him, and kiss her on her cheeks, which were now rosy with expectation. He lifted up his head. His lips moved, He put out a hand to her a little way, but with a moan he drew it back. Then he looked into her eyes, and said slowly-- “It is the truth. I do not love you with the heart of a lover.” “That is enough. Leave me! My heart is broken!” She fell into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. He looked at her for a moment; then, with a cry of agony, he went out of the room--out of the house. In his heart, as he wandered on to the high road, there was not much of the exaltation of a man who knows that he has overcome an unworthy impulse. CHAPTER XXXII.