“What an unnatural thing for a father to do!” he cried angrily. “The man must have had a heart of stone. But what is money, Sadie, compared with the happiness of a life-time? I shall have something from my father’s estate, though of course it will be but a trifle compared with the united estates of Brookside and Englehurst. But I love you, Sadie; I will work for you; I will make a fortune for you, if you will give me the incentive. O my darling, do not let your ambition ruin both our lives!” Miss Rochester looked grave and thoughtful for a few moments after this earnest appeal. She was almost tempted to yield and become a good woman—a loved and loving wife, for she knew that she loved Norman Winthrop as she could never love another. But pride, ambition, and fear of her mother conquered the promptings of her better nature. “You must not tempt me,” she whispered hoarsely. “I shall hold by the contract—unless your brother refuses to abide by it.” “Then I shall go to him and tell him how we stand,” cried her companion excitedly. “True would never hold a woman bound—not even for millions—who had given her heart to another.” “You shall not—if you lisp a word of what has passed between us I shall hate you, for—I have sworn that I will be mistress of Brookside and Englehurst,” the girl passionately returned, though she was white to her lips. “Sadie Rochester, you are a heartless flirt! You have won my heart and now you cast it from you as a worthless thing. I know I am not a paragon, like my brother—I have been the black sheep in the family ever since I was a boy; but you might have made a good man of me—you have made a devil instead.” He turned abruptly from her and left the rooms, while the proud girl sank back in her chair and wept as she seldom wept. Poor Salome, meanwhile, was no less wretched. Until that hour she believed she had schooled her heart to give up her idol—that she had relinquished all hope of ever being anything to him again. But now she knew that she had not. She realized now that, during all her intercourse with him—while she was nursing his friend in the hospital; as she saw his devotion to others and learned to know more fully his goodness of heart, his nobility of soul; while he lay so sick himself—so helpless and dependent—she had been growing to love him more fondly, more idolatrously than before. How she hung over him when he lay so deathly ill! How she had watched every symptom—every breath, even! How she had despaired when she had thought he must go down into the dark valley—how once, when she believed that another dawn would find him cold in death, she had almost been tempted to tear away those unsightly bandages from her face—cast aside those hideous glasses, reveal her identity, and beg for one last word of love from his lips! Then how she had exulted when she saw the sluggish tide of life turn in his favor, and knew that he would live, if she did not relax her vigilance!