“I will be kind to him, yes; how could I be harsh with him now? But I will make no rash promises,” the young girl returned, with sudden spirit. “At least, promise not to hold any communication with Mr. Bain until to-morrow.” “I can make no promise,” Daisie reiterated, so resolutely that the arch schemer had to give up her point, and proceeded in sullen silence to the presence of the dying man. He was awake and conscious, his eyes turning to the door with a look of yearning. Daisie’s tender heart was touched with pity as she gazed on the pallid, pain-drawn face, and she softly touched his hand while she whispered: “I am so sorry!” Then she saw that they had all gone out into the hall, except the widow, leaving them alone with the sufferer. She felt herself pushed gently into a chair by Mrs. Fleming, who whispered: “I pray you be kind to him.” “Be kind to me,” echoed Royall faintly, as his cousin withdrew to the window, and his sunken blue eyes searched her face wistfully for some sign of tenderness. It was a cruel position for any girl to be placed in. Daisie felt its pathos in the depths of her tender heart, that ached for the dying man, who had given her his love in vain. She whispered again, with a broken sob: “Oh, I am so sorry for you!” A faint, tremulous smile illumined his features, and he groped for her hand. She let him have it, and he pressed it feebly, whispering: “You are not angry now?” “No,” she answered solemnly, out of the depths of her pity. “Do we not forgive everything to the dying?” And surely he looked like a dying man, under the light of the flickering lamp. “Bless you!” he murmured, in that faint voice, and added: “You will stay with me to the end?” It was the same petition Mrs. Fleming had offered, and she started and trembled with the same alarm. The end! What would it be? The widow had frankly hinted that he had a slight chance for continued life. And if they extorted from her this ambiguous promise to stay till the end, and he lived, what then? Would they hold her to this promise? She knew in her heart that he would do it; that he would hold her forever against her beloved. So she dare not promise. A nervous tremor shook her form, and she faltered: “I will stay till to-morrow.” His eyes searched hers with wistful reproach. “But, dear one, I may not die to-morrow. The physician says I may go out like the flame of a candle to-night, or I may linger on for days. Can you deny me the comfort of your presence till the last hour? Can you be so cruel, when I have loved you so?” His strained voice broke in a gasp, and he lay looking at her pitifully, love and sorrow in his anguished eyes. It pierced her heart with pity, but she dared not yield, for fear of the uncertain future. Yet she had a tender heart, and it ached with sympathy, though she had to steel herself against his prayer. “Cruel, cruel!” he sighed reproachfully, and she shrank as from a blow.