“The time has come, Gilbert,” she said at last, “when our love for each other must no longer be kept a secret--at least from the few who, under other circumstances, would have a right to know it. We must still wait, though no longer (remember that!) than we were already agreed to wait; but we should betray ourselves, sooner or later, and then the secret, discovered by others, would seem to hint at a sense of shame. We shall gain respect and sympathy, and perhaps help, if we reveal it ourselves. Even if you do not take the same view, Gilbert, think of this, that it is my place to stand beside you in your hour of difficulty and trial; that other losses, other dangers, may come, and you could not, you must not, hold me apart when my heart tells me we should be together!” She laid her arms caressingly over his shoulders, and looked in his face. A wonderful softness and tenderness touched his pale, worn countenance. “Martha,” he said, “remember that my disgrace will cover you, yet awhile.” “Gilbert!” That one word, proud, passionate, reproachful, yet forgiving, sealed his lips. “So be it!” he cried. “God knows, I think but of you. If I selfishly considered myself, do you think I would hold back my own honor?” “A poor honor,” she said, “that I sit comfortably at home and love you, while you are face to face with death!” Martha Deane's resolution was inflexibly taken. That same evening she went into the sitting-room, where her father was smoking a pipe before the open stove, and placed her chair opposite to his. “Father,” she said, “thee has never asked any questions concerning Alfred Barton's visit.” The Doctor started, and looked at her keenly, before replying. Her voice had its simple, natural tone, her manner was calm and self-possessed; yet something in her firm, erect posture and steady eye impressed him with the idea that she had determined on a full and final discussion of the question. “No, child,” he answered, after a pause. “I saw Alfred, and he said thee was rather taken by surprise. He thought, perhaps, thee didn't rightly know thy own mind, and it would be better to wait a little. That is the chief reason why I haven't spoken to thee.” “If Alfred Barton said that, he told thee false,” said she. “I knew my own mind, as well then as now. I said to him that nothing could ever make me his wife.” “Martha!” the Doctor exclaimed, “don't be hasty! If Alfred is a little older”-- “Father!” she interrupted, “never mention this thing again! Thee can neither give me away, nor sell me; though I am a woman, I belong to myself. Thee knows I'm not hasty in anything. It was a long time before I rightly knew my own heart; but when I did know it and found that it had chosen truly, I gave it freely, and it is gone from me forever!” “Martha, Martha!” cried Dr. Deane, starting from his seat, “what does all this mean?”