She debated whether or not she ought to tell her father and ask his advice, but she feared that in his mind other considerations would outweigh the one she felt to be the chief, and she decided to say nothing to him until she knew her own mind in the matter. "If I refuse him," she said to herself, "there will be no reason for me to say anything about it, and it wouldn't be fair to Mr. Wellesly for me to tell father or any one else that he had proposed to me. Besides, father might possibly speak of it outside, and I couldn't bear to think that people were gossiping about it. No, I will not say anything, unless I should decide that I want to marry him. Then I will ask father if he thinks I'd better." The next morning she woke with a sudden start, all her consciousness filled with an overwhelming desire to love and be loved, to be all of life to some one who would be more than life to her. She sat up, panting, pressing her hand to her heart. At once her thoughts leaped to Wellesly. "He loves me, he has told me so, and surely this is love I feel now, and for him. I suppose--I do--love him." She lifted her nightgown above her bare feet and stood beside little Paul's crib. With her disheveled hair falling in waving masses around her face she bent over him and lightly kissed his forehead. "My little Bye-Bye, I would not leave you to be any man's wife. But he will not wish me to leave you, because he thinks--that it is beautiful and noble that I--that I have cared for you--though how could I have done anything else--and that is partly why he loves me. Surely, I love him, and I suppose--it is best--for me to marry him. But I'll wait till he comes again--there!" With burning cheeks she stood erect and stamped one bare foot on the floor. Again the memory of the brown eyes smote suddenly into her consciousness. Her chin took a sharper angle and her red lips shut tightly as she threw back her head and twisted her fingers together. "I will not think of him again," she said slowly, in a low voice. "He is in jail, to be tried for murder, and he will probably be hung--" She hesitated, her face turned white and there was a spasmodic throbbing in her throat, but she went resolutely on: "And he does not care the least thing about me. He was merely fond of my little Bye-Bye, and I am grateful to him for that. But he is nothing to me. I'll marry Mr. Wellesly--I think--but I'll wait--" And then the throbbing in her throat choked her voice and she threw herself upon the bed and buried her face in the pillow and cried. Just as thousands of young girls have cried over their fluttering, doubtful, ignorant maiden hearts, ever since man gave up seizing the girl of his choice and carrying her away, willy-nilly, and began proposing to her instead. CHAPTER XX