“Louie,” he persisted, “which would you rather do—owe a great many people, some of whom need the money, or, owe one who does not need it, and, if necessary, can wait forever? Try and consider yourself my debtor.” His arm had tightened round her, and he was holding her very close to him as he talked, till gradually she grew calm and said: “I know it is very kind in you, and few would have done it. But it will be so long before I can pay you, if I ever do, and that is very humiliating. I owe you so much already.” Herbert had once said of Fred that if he were ever in love he would leap over the precipice without a thought of the consequences, and that was just what he did do. Without stopping to consider whether it were the time or the place, or Louie in a condition to hear him, he got both her hands in his, and held them while he told her how she could pay him, and that he believed he had loved her ever since the day when she worked so bravely to save his uncle’s bank. “It certainly began then,” he said, “and has gone on increasing ever since, until now it will be very hard to give you up.” He did not speak of the worn napkin he had kept because her hands had hemmed it, and that it always brought to his mind the picture of a little girl in a bib apron and white sun-bonnet, whom his aunt had described. To tell her that would remind her of a time he would have her forget, and he dwelt most upon his present feelings and his great love for her. When Herbert proposed to her, she fell asleep, and she seemed to do so now, she sat so still, with her head bent so low that Fred could not see her face. During her illness, and the excitement which had preceded and followed it, she had not had time to ask herself what her real feelings were for Fred Lansing, or what his were for her. His attentions had been so delicate and unobtrusive, and she had received them without questioning until now, when it came to her that she loved him as she had never loved Herbert White, and that it would be such bliss to put her tired head upon his breast and lay all her care upon his broad shoulders. “Speak to me, Louie,” he said at last, trying to look in her face. “Say you will be my wife, and cancel that debt.” “Oh, if I only could,” she said; “but I can’t, because of my family history, and then—” She hesitated a moment and went on, “I once thought I loved Herbert; I was engaged to him.” “Yes, I know,” Fred answered, succeeding in getting her face where he could see the side of it. “He told me at the time, or I should have proposed to you myself. It gave me an awful pang, which I covered as well as I could, though I think Herbert half suspected it. He has been man enough to write and tell me that you had severed the tie, and he said some things not very complimentary to himself for his cowardice in keeping his engagement a secret. I think he expects this finale to our acquaintance. I know Miss Percy does, and my mother, and both will be glad.”