"What is it that you wanted to see me about?" asked Faraday, standing motionless, and feeling in the sense of oppression and embarrassment that seemed to weigh upon them both the premonition of an approaching crisis. She made no answer for a moment, but stood looking down, as if in an effort to choose her words or collect her thoughts, the violets in her dress rising and falling with her quickened breathing. "It's rather hard to know how to say--anything," she said at length. "If I can do anything for you," said the young man, "you know it would always be a happiness to me to serve you." "Oh, it's not a message or a favor," she said, hastily. "I only wanted to say something"--she paused in great embarrassment--"but it's even more queer more unusual, than my coming here." Faraday made no response, and for a space both were silent. Then she said, speaking with a peculiar low distinctness: "The last time I saw you I seemed very disagreeable. I wanted to make sure of something. I wanted to make sure that you were fond of me--to surprise it out of you. Well--I did it. You are fond of me. I made you show it to me." She raised her eyes, brilliant and dark, and looked into his. "If you were to swear to me now that I was wrong I would know you were not telling the truth," she said, with proud defiance. "You love me." "Yes," said Faraday, slowly, "I do. What then?" "What then?" she repeated. "Why do you go away--go away from me?" "Because," he answered, "I am too much of a man to live within sight of the woman I love and can never hope for." "Can never hope for?" she exclaimed, aghast. "Are you--are you married?" The sudden horror on her face was a strange thing for Faraday to see. "No," he said, "I am not married." "Then, did she tell you that you never could hope for her?" said Miss. Genevieve Ryan, in a tremulous voice. "No. It was not necessary. I knew myself." "You did yourself a wrong, and her too," she broke out, passionately. "You should have told her, and given her a chance to say--to say what she has a right to say, without making her come to you, with her love in her hand, to offer it to you as if she was afraid you were going to throw it back in her face. It's bad enough being a woman anyway, but to have the feelings of a woman, and then have to say a thing like this--it's--it's--ghastly." "Genevieve!" breathed Faraday. "Why don't you understand?" she continued, desperately. "You won't see it. You make me come here and tell it to you this way. I may be badly mannered and unconventional, but I have feelings and pride like other women. But what else could I do?" Her voice suddenly broke into soft appeal, and she held out her hands toward him with a gesture as spontaneous in its pleading tenderness as though made by a child. Faraday was human. He dashed away the chair that stood between them and clasped the trembling hands in his.