and I now have work to do on the other side. We cannot work
together; we must work apart. Your heart is speaking, and I love you
for it, but we must not think of it now. It may come right some
time--God only knows! My duty is plain--I must go with Lucy. Neither
you nor my dead father would love me if I did differently."

"I only know that I love you and that you love me and nothing else
should count," he pleaded impatiently. "Nothing else shall count. There
is nothing you could do would make me love you less. You are practical
and wise about all your plans. Why has this whim of Lucy's taken hold
of you as it has? And it is only a whim; Lucy will want something else
in six months. Oh, I cannot--cannot let you go. I'm so desolate without
you--my whole life is yours--everything I do is for you. O Jane, my
beloved, don't shut me out of your life! I will not let you go without
me!" His voice vibrated with a certain indignation, as if he had been
unjustly treated. She raised one hand and laid it on his forehead,
smoothing his brow as a mother would that of a child. The other still
lay in his.

"Don't, John," she moaned, in a half-piteous tone. "Don't! Don't talk
so! I can only bear comforting words to-day. I am too wretched--too
utterly broken and miserable. Please! please, John!"

He dropped her hand and leaning forward put both of his own to his
head. He knew how strong was her will and how futile would be his
efforts to change her mind unless her conscience agreed.

"I won't," he answered, as a strong man answers who is baffled. "I did
not mean to be impatient or exacting." Then he raised his head and
looked steadily into her eyes. "What would you have me do, then?"

"Wait."

"But you give me no promise."

"No, I cannot--not now. I am like one staggering along, following a dim
light that leads hither and thither, and which may any moment go out
and leave me in utter darkness."

"Then there is something you have not told me?"

"O John! Can't you trust me?"

"And yet you love me?"

"As my life, John."

When he had gone and she had closed the door upon him, she went back to
the sofa where the two had sat together, and with her hands clasped
tight above her head, sank down upon its cushions. The tears came like
rain now, bitter, blinding tears that she could not check.

"I have hurt him," she moaned. "He is so good, and strong, and helpful.
He never thinks of himself; it is always of me--me, who can do nothing