“I thank you, my friend, for I believe you sincere; which can be said of very few out of the many who are here to-night.” “All seem happy, nevertheless,” he replied. “Yes,” replied Dora, half regretfully. “And I am happy, while at the same time I am sad. I long to visit the old world, and yet it makes me almost homesick to leave my native land, though I have not many kindred ties to bind me here.” “Your friends will miss you sadly, Miss Dupont.” “Thank you again, Mr. Weimher, and I may reckon _you_ among them, I trust,” she replied, smiling archly up at him. “A friend! Oh, Dora, pardon me, but I can be still no longer. I brought you out here to speak my farewell, for I _could_ not say it when others were looking coldly on; and does not your heart tell you that I had more than a formal farewell to say? Does it not tell you that I am more than a friend? It is a cold word to apply to me, who loves you as deeply as I do. Do not hide your face, my darling, but give, oh, give me the love I crave.” He would have taken her hand, but she held it from him, while a look of pain swept over her fair face. “Oh, Dora,” he went on, while a shade of keen disappointment clouded his eyes, “have you not seen how dear you have become to me, how I have fed and lived upon your smile? Has your heart no welcome for me? You do not answer. Oh, my love, my love! do not send me from you, I pray! Give me what I ask, else my heart will break.” “Fredrich,” she began, and then hesitated. “Ah, darling, thank you for uttering that one word. Bless you. You _will_ give yourself to me—you _are_ mine!” He passed his arm around her waist, and drawing her tenderly toward him bent a look of eager love upon her fair face. But she quietly disengaged herself from his embrace, and though the tears were in her lovely eyes, and her voice trembled with every word she uttered, there was a quiet firmness in her manner that crushed every atom of hope from his breast. “Mr. Weimher, I am pained beyond measure at your words, for they make me feel as if I had deceived you with false hopes; but what you ask can never be!” She paused a moment, then went on, sadly: “I have loved you—nay, hear me,” she added, quickly, as he flashed a look of joy at her—“I have respected you as a friend, and loved you as I would a brother, but I never dreamed you cherished a deeper feeling for me. I thought Miss Nettie Allen had your heart’s best and deepest devotion!” “Oh, Dora, my lost love, I cannot bear this,” he groaned. “Yes, my friend, you _must_ bear it, though it pains me to say it. I have always treated you openly and frankly, have I not?” “Yes, but—oh, cruel fate! I had so hoped there might be something deeper beneath.” “Forgive me, Fredrich, if I have unintentionally misled you. But I can never give you more than a sister’s affection, and that you shall have.”