“Mother, I swear to you, upon my honor, that I see but one way to silence forever this foul slander upon my name, and to save Sweetheart from the agony of shame and grief you forebode.” “Oh, Norman, if there is any sacrifice I can make to save her--” “To make Sweetheart my wife, if she will have me,” he ended, in a voice shaken with emotion. CHAPTER XLIII. Two days of the most cruel unrest followed to Norman de Vere after that painful interview with his mother, for although he had fully resolved to ask Thea West to marry him, he could not bring himself to the point of a proposal. What if she should refuse, as it seemed almost certain she would do? He would be confronted again with the problem of her future. And the girl was so young, so lovely, so utterly adorable, it seemed cruel that her life should be clouded by the shameful story that Camille’s relentless malice had sent ringing down the years to torture him when he had thought himself free of her forever. Dead and buried as she was, she was yet taking on him a most bitter vengeance for her slighted love. But if Thea could only love him, the ban of Camille’s malice would be removed. He would devote his life to making her happy if she would consent to bind her fresh young life with his saddened, world-weary one. Perhaps the advantages he could give her--an unsullied name, riches, and a heart’s devotion, might be some compensation for the disparity in years that made him think Cameron Bentley or even Frank Hinton a more desirable _parti_ than himself. Meanwhile, the hours flew by, bringing the day of the ball, and he had not yet spoken to Thea, although he felt himself a coward for delaying. “He either fears his fate too much Or his desert is small Who dares not put it to the touch To win or lose it all.” Thea, all unconscious of the fate that hung over her, was all excitement in the prospect of the ball. She did not see much of her guardian, for the house was topsy-turvy with the preparations, and he remained closely shut up in the library, except when he met her at meals. He had not asked Thea to resume her rides with him, and the brief spirit of hope and courage that had inspired her at Orange Grove died out again under what seemed the careless friendliness of his manner. “I must give up the struggle,” she said, hopelessly. “I do not believe he will ever care for any one again. I need not regard Miss Bentley as a rival, either. He is too self absorbed to think tenderly of her or me. I fooled myself thinking there was anything in his manner to me to inspire hope. It was only a way he had of showing me just a little more than friendliness because--because--he saved my life. But as for love, it is like that pretty poem of Ella Wheeler Wilcox;” and with a sigh she repeated: “‘You said good-night, and the spell was over-- Too warm for a friend and too cold for a lover-- There was nothing else to say.’”