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“I have not thought so.”

“The time will perhaps come when you will so think, but for the sake of all that we most value, let it come before it is too late. What would be our fate–how terrible would be our misery–if such a thought should come to either of us after we have linked our lots together.”

There was a solemnity about her as she thus spoke which almost repressed him,–which for a time did prevent him from taking that tone of authority which on such a subject he would choose to adopt. But he recovered himself. “I hardly think that this comes well from you,” he said.

“From whom else should it come? Who else can fight my battle for me; and, John, who else can fight that same battle on your behalf? I tell you this, that with your mind standing towards me as it does stand at present, you could not give me your hand at the altar with true words and a happy conscience. Am I not true? You have half repented of your bargain already. Is it not so?”

He did not answer her; but getting up from his seat walked to the front of the summer-house, and stood there with his back turned upon her. It was not that he meant to be ungracious, but in truth he did not know how to answer her. He had half repented of his bargain.

“John,” she said, getting up and following him, so that she could put her hand upon his arm, “I have been very angry with you.”

“Angry with me!” he said, turning sharp upon her.

“Yes, angry with you. You would have treated me like a child. But that feeling has gone now. I am not angry now. There is my hand;–the hand of a friend. Let the words that have been spoken between us be as though they had not been spoken. Let us both be free.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Certainly I mean it.” As she spoke these words her eyes filled with tears, in spite of all the efforts she could make; but he was not looking at her, and her efforts had sufficed to prevent any sob from being audible.

“With all my heart,” he said; and it was manifest from his tone that he had no thought of her happiness as he spoke. It was true that she had been angry with him–angry, as she had herself declared; but nevertheless, in what she had said and what she had done, she had thought more of his happiness than of her own. Now she was angry once again.

“With all your heart, Captain Broughton! Well, so be it. If with all your heart, then is the necessity so much the greater. You go to- morrow. Shall we say farewell now?”

“Patience, I am not going to be lectured.”

“Certainly not by me. Shall we say farewell now?”

“Yes, if you are determined.”

“I am determined. Farewell, Captain Broughton. You have all my wishes for your happiness.” And she held out her hand to him.

“Patience!” he said. And he looked at her with a dark frown, as though he would strive to frighten her into submission. If so, he might have saved himself any such attempt.

“Farewell, Captain Broughton. Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.” He gave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so. She lifted it to her lips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer- house down through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage.

During the whole of that day she said no word to any one of what had occurred. When she was once more at home she went about her household affairs as she had done on that day of his arrival. When she sat down to dinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that she was unhappy; nor during the evening was there any expression in her face, or any tone in her voice, which excited his attention. On the following morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and the servant-girl brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour. But she would not see him. “Laws, miss, you ain’t a quarrelled with your beau?” the poor girl said. “No, not quarrelled,” she said; “but give him that.” It was a scrap of paper, containing a word or two in pencil. “It is better that we should not meet again. God bless you.” And from that day to this, now more than ten years, they never have met.