“I asked if you loved that man Ward?” “I could not answer that question. I—I wonder how you can ask it.” “Another, then—and for mercy’s sake, be frank. Have you ceased to love me? Anna, is it so?” Anna would not tell a lie. She could be silent, and so keep her promise; but to say that she did not love that man, when every thought of her brain and pulse of her being was drawing her soul into his, was a blasphemy against love that she recoiled from. “Oh, Anna! is it all over between us?” She began to weep; great tears broke through those drooping eyelashes. “Yes,” she said, mournfully. “It is all over between us.” “And you will marry that man?” “No! No! He does not wish it. I—I——” She broke off, as if a shot had penetrated her heart; for Savage had dropped her hand with a gesture of sweet anguish, as only a proud man feels when the woman he loves sinks into degradation. Fortunately for her secret, she neither understood the gesture, or the thought that made him turn so deadly white. She had paused suddenly, because the words on her lips were about to betray her. The next words that Savage addressed to her made the heart in her bosom thrill and ache as it had never done before. “Anna, listen. I am going now, and you may never hear my voice again.” A sob broke on her white lips. She drooped before him, white and still; but, oh! how miserable! ready for the last killing words. “If—if this man should become weary of you——” “Weary of me?” There was pride on her lip, and fire in her eyes now; but this only revolted Savage. It seemed to him like the confidence of a vain woman, secure in her unhappy position. “This may happen, Anna.” “No, Mr. Savage, it never can.” “But men do change sometimes,” he answered bitterly, “almost as readily as women. When this time comes, send to me. I shall never, of my own will, speak to you again; but while I have a dollar you shall never want.” Anna was weeping bitterly now. She strove to answer him, but her throat gave forth nothing but sobs. “Do you promise, Anna, if any thing connected with you could give me a gleam of pleasure, it would be a certainty that you would send to me in your trouble or your need?” “I will—I will,” she cried out. “And to no other person?” “To you, and no other.” “Now, farewell, Anna.” She took his hand in hers; she pressed her lips upon it again and again, covering it with tears and passionate kisses. “It is forever—it is forever!” she sobbed in despair. “Do not hate me. Think kindly of me sometimes. Tell your mother——” “Tell my mother what, Anna? She will be sorry to hear this. She has been kind to you.” “Kind! Oh, yes! very kind.” There was bitterness in her heart, and it broke up through her sobs. “But what must I tell her?” “Nothing.” “I will tell her nothing,” he answered sadly. He made an effort to take away his hand, but it brought a cry of such anguish from her that he desisted, and strove to soothe her.