"My dear Miss Denville, I came here to-day, a vain weak man, full of the desire to appear young; but you have driven away all this shallow pretence, for I feel that you can see me clearly as what I am, an old fellow of seventy. Hush! don't speak my dear child till I have done. I have always admired you as a beautiful girl: I now love you as the sweet, patient, suffering woman who has devoted herself to others." "Lord Carboro'--" "No, no; let me try and finish, my dear. I will be very brief. It would be a mockery to speak flattering follies to such a one as you. Tell me first--Did your father give you to understand that I was coming?" Claire bent her head. "Then let me say simply, my child, that if you will be my wife and give me such love as your sweet dutiful heart will teach you to give to the doting old man who asks you, I will try all I can to make your young life happy, and place it in your power to make a pleasant home somewhere for poor old Denville, and your sister. We must bring her round. A trip abroad with your father, and--and--dear me--dear me, my child, I am rambling strangely, and hardly know what I say, only that I ask you to be my wife, and in return you shall be mistress of all I possess. I know the difference in our ages, and what the world will say; but I could afford to laugh at the world for the few years I should be likely to stay in it, and afterwards, my child, you would be free and rich, and with no duty left but to think kindly of the old man who was gone." Claire listened to the old man's words with a strange swelling sensation in her breast. The tears gathered slowly in her eyes as she gazed wistfully at him, wondering at the tender respect he paid her, and one by one they brimmed over and trickled down. She could not speak, but at last in the gratitude of her heart, as she thought of the sacrifice he made in offering her rank and riches, after the miserable scandals of which she had been the victim, she raised his withered hand slowly to her lips. "No, no," he cried, "not that. You consent then?" "No, my lord," said Claire firmly. "It is impossible." "Then--then," he cried testily. "You do love someone else." Claire bowed her head, and her eyes looked resentment for a moment. Then in a low sweet voice she said: "Even if I could say to you, Lord Carboro' my heart is free, and I will try to be your loving, dutiful wife, there are reasons which make it impossible." "These troubles--that I will not name. I know, I know," he said hastily; "but they are miserable family troubles, not yours." "Troubles that are mine, Lord Carboro', and which I must share. Forgive me if I give you pain, but I could never be your wife." The old man dropped the hand he held, and his face was full of resentment as he replied: