“Love! O, do not speak to me of that,” she said, suddenly awaking to the drift of his words, and striving to withdraw her hand. “No, but I must speak of it,” he said with vehemence entirely foreign to his usual half-mocking philosophy. “I must speak of it,” he repeated with deepening tones. “You surely can not be blind to the fact that I love you devotedly--absorbingly. Every day's intercourse must have shown you something of this, which you could not have mistaken. You must have seen this growing upon me continually, until now I have but few thoughts into which your image does not appear, to brighten and enhance them. Tell me now that hopes, dearer--infinitely dearer--than any I have ever before cherished, are to have the crown of fruition.” “I can not--I can not,” she sighed. “What can you not? Can't you care for me at least a little?” “I do; I care for you ever so much. I am not only grateful for all that you have been to me and done for me, but I have a feeling that goes beyond mere gratitude. But to say that I return the love you profess for me--that I even entertain any feeling resembling it--I can not, and certainly not at this time.” “But you certainly do not love any one else?” “O, I beg of you not to question me.” “I know I have no right to ask you such a question. I have no right to pry into any matter which you do not choose to reveal to me of your own free will and accord. But as all the mail of the hospital goes through my hands, I could not help noticing that in all the months that you have been here you have written to no man, nor received a letter from one. Upon this I have built my hopes that you were heartfree.” “I can not talk of this, nor of anything now. I am so wrought up by many things that have happened--by my letter from home; by your unexpected declaration--that my poor brain is in a whirl, and I can not think clearly and connectedly on any subject. Please do not press me any more now.” The torrent of his passion was stayed by this appeal to his forbearance. He essayed to calm down his impetuous eagerness for a decision of his fate, and said penitently: “I beg your pardon. I really forgot. I have so long sought an opportunity to speak to you upon this matter, and I have been so often balked at the last moment, that when a seeming chance came I was carried away with it, and in my selfish eagerness for my own happiness, I forgot your distress. Forgive me--do.” “I have nothing to forgive,” she said frankly, most touched by his tender consideration. “You never allow me an occasion for forgiveness, or to do anything in any way to offset the favors you continually heap upon me.” “Pay them all a thousand times over by giving me the least reason to hope.” “I only wish I could--I only wish I dared. But I fear to say anything now. I can not trust myself.” “But you will at least say something that will give me the basis of a hope,” he persisted.