"He has," I returned. "Then why do you ask one from me?" Was it possible for me to tell him? "If it was not enough coming from his lips, how could it be coming from mine?" he continued. Shame and confusion kept me silent. "Would it be?" he persisted, this time with feeling and something like a hint of eagerness in his voice. I dared not say "Yes," and yet I must have the assurance I demanded, if ever I was to know peace again. "You no not answer; but I think, I feel confident you would believe my word, Miss Sterling." "I have asked for it," I returned. He turned frightfully pale; it seemed as if he would speak, but the words did not come. I felt, my heart growing sick, and as for him, he started violently away from my side, and took a turn or two up and down the room. "I cannot deny what looks like an accusation," he declared at last, coming and standing before me with a sombre but determined air. "My pride alone is sufficient to deter me. Will you accept from me any thing less. I am not such a man as my brother." "I will accept your assurance that as the true friend to Ada Reynolds I may remain in this house without stain to her memory or love." "Then you think--" "No," said I, with a burst I could not control, "I do not think; I do not want to think; do not make me, I entreat." He smiled, a sad and fearful smile, and took another turn up and down the seemingly darkening room. When he came back I was cold as marble, and almost as insensible. "Miss Sterling," were his words, "do you remember a conversation we had this morning?" I bowed, with a sudden rush of hope that almost melted me again. "In that conversation I made a solemn assertion; do you recollect what it was?" "Yes," I looked, if I did not audibly reply. "I make that assertion again--is it sufficient?" he asked. At that moment it seemed to me that it was. I looked and felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my heart, and though he flushed deeply, as any man of spirit, let alone one of such a proud and aristocratic nature as his, would be apt to under the circumstances, I saw that he experienced a relief also, and giving way to an impulse I do not yet know whether to regret or not, I held out my hand, saying calmly: "I will remain, Mr. Pollard." VIII. A FLOWER FROM THE POLLARD CONSERVATORY. You may wear your rue with a difference. --HAMLET. Mrs. Harrington did not immediately recover from the shock she had received. I therefore found myself fully employed the next day. Towards evening, however, a respite came, and I took the opportunity for a stroll up-street, as much for the sake of hearing the gossip of the town as to escape from the atmosphere of sorrow and perplexity by which I was surrounded.