“No, Raymond, you must have no regrets for me. I was not meant for marriage. God has warned me of it, though it’s been a little hard. For you he has another wife in store, no doubt, who will make you happier than I could.” “You’re like no other woman, Margaret. You’re not the kind one forgets. You’re not the kind one can replace.” Darkness was coming into the drawing-room with the waning day, and in the shadow, where the outlines of her black dress were dimmed, the girl’s face shone forth like a last remnant of the light, a light which scarcely animated her pale features. It was as if in touching her cheek one should fear to feel, instead of living warmth, the chill of marble in them. ‘Yes,“ she said, ”you will forget me. You must, and besides, I wish it.” He looked at her in dismay, like a traveller who beholds from afar the summit that he cannot reach. “You can’t control my memories,” he said. “Then remember me without bitter thoughts, as if I were a sister that you had lost.” “No, Margaret, not without bitterness. You lifted up my thoughts, elevated my heart. They will only fall back now.” She was moved by this speech, and it was with a grave and almost solemn tone that she responded: “If you loved me, if you truly loved me, you would give me the supreme joy of thinking that my vocation was not to be useless, for you no less than for others. You can’t be cast down forever over my refusal: it doesn’t really touch you. It can neither wound you nor take from you. My memory ought to be sweet to you, and not spoil your life. For I have loved you, Raymond, my friend. I looked forward contentedly to our wedding-day, and content is the confidence of the soul, our security for the future. An unexpected upheaval has separated us. I’ve seen God’s summons in it. If it is not His will that I should bring you happiness, if He has tested you in your turn, let me believe that this very trial will make you strong, make you grow, and ennoble you. If I, imperfect as I am, have served to elevate you, don’t tell me that you are going to slip back. I shall pray so hard for you.” She was absorbed in her entreaty, and did not notice that he had slowly bent his knee before her, till suddenly she felt the young man’s lips pressed to her hand. “What are you doing, Raymond? Get up, I beg of you,” she cried. She saw him there at her feet and was surprised by this new resolution that he revealed to her. His face seemed no longer tortured and sorrowful, only serious and sad. He had succumbed in spite of himself to the stern and peaceful influence of her faith--that faith which is more potent even over others than ourselves. “I was not worthy of you,” he murmured. “But I loved you so. No man is worthy of you. That is my consolation,” he added, as he rose, paying her this last homage. She turned her head as if to put away such praise. “No, dear friend, you mustn’t talk any more to me like this.”