“We must give it up. But do not love me less for that, dear Mrs. Savage. If we could love according to our own will, I would gladly be your daughter. But from this hour we must never think of it again.” Georgie flung her arms around Mrs. Savage, and kissed her face, which had an expression upon it half stern, half sorrowful. Then the two women burst into tears, and clung to each other, sobbing. “It is because I grieve to disappoint you!” said Georgie, sweeping the tears from her eyes. “It breaks my heart, for I do love you as if you were my own mother.” “Ah! reconsider it, Georgie—I may be that.” “If I could—if I could!” cried Georgie, hurrying on her things. “Good-by—good-by. It is all my fault; but I cannot help it.” Poor Georgie. She had gone through her generous task bravely, but she shook with agitation all the way home; and, once there, locked herself into her own little sitting-room, and cried herself into complete exhaustion, huddled up in the easy-chair, in which she had suffered so terribly when Savage first made her his confidant. That evening young Savage came to see her, looking so miserably wretched that she forgot her own sorrow in pity for him. “What had gone wrong?” she asked, “he looked so ill.” “Nothing!” For the world he would not have told her, or any one, of the broken hopes that had left him so depressed. To have hinted at this would be a sacrilege to the love that Anna Burns had forfeited. He looked at Georgie earnestly. Sorrow had rendered him sympathetic. Some vague idea of the disappointment which had left the violet shadows, so deep and dark, about her eyes, fell upon him; but he did not guess at the whole truth, but took a misty idea that she, too, had loved some one—young Gould, perhaps—and been disenchanted as he was. “After all, Georgie,” he said, “it would have been better if you and I could have gotten up a grand passion for each other. It would have pleased our parents, if nothing more.” Georgiana smiled sadly enough. “But it was impossible,” she said, in a faint voice. “That was what she had told his mother not three hours before.” “You told her this? Oh! now I remember! It was I who asked you. But it was selfish. I had no right to wound your delicacy so.” “But it was best. She had been cherishing a delusion. Very soon you will tell her all.” Savage did not answer. He longed to make a confidant of Georgiana, but his heart was too freshly wounded, he could not expose its misery to her. Besides, how could he pain that pure heart with the story he had to relate? “We have found a house for Mrs. Burns,” said Georgie; “such a pretty place, you would almost think yourself in the country.” “Will they go? Does she accept it?” “Yes, the old lady is delighted. Anna seems less glad, but she accepts the change, and is grateful for it. But some change has come upon her, more depressing than poverty—that she bore well.”