blame yourself, not me. I have
offered you liberty, and you have rejected it. I shall leave this
country in a week's time; so be prepared. But before going, as you are
so determined to cast in your lot with mine, I shall marry you."

She starts to her feet.

"Marry me?" she says, faintly. "Make me your wife! Oh, no! you don't
know what you are saying."

She trembles violently, and her head falls somewhat heavily against
his arm.

"It isn't worth a fainting fit," he says, hastily enough; but his arm,
as he places it round her, is strong and compassionate. "Can anything
be more absurd than a woman? Sit down here, and try to be reasonable.
You must be quick with your preparations, as we start on Tuesday. I
will see about a special license, and we can get the marriage ceremony
over to-morrow. I know a fellow who will manage it all for me."

"You are quite sure you will never regret this step?" she says,
earnestly, even at this supremely happy moment placing his happiness
before her own.

"I don't suppose so. If it is any satisfaction to you to know it," he
says, with a shrug, "you are the only woman I have ever loved, and
probably the only one I ever shall love."

A smile--radiant, perfect--lights her face. Surely, just then, the one
moment of utter happiness, that they tell us is all that is ever
allowed to poor mortals, is hers. It is broken by the clock of a
neighboring church clanging out the hour.

"So late!" says Horace, hurriedly. "I must go. Until to-morrow, Ruth,
good-by."

"Good-by!" She places her hands upon his shoulders, and, throwing back
her head, gazes long and earnestly into his face, as though reading
once again each line in the features she loves with such devotion.
"Before you go," she says, solemnly, "call me what I shall be so soon.
Say, 'Good-by, my wife!'"

"Good-by, my wife!" returns he, with more love in his accents than she
has heard for months.

She presses her lips passionately to his, and again, for the last
time, breathes the word "Farewell!"

His rapid footsteps descend the stairs. She listens to them until they
have ceased and all is still. Then she goes to the window, and presses
her forehead against the cold pane, that she may once more see him as
he crosses the street. The lamps are all alight, and a lurid glare
from one falls full upon her as she stands leaning eagerly forward to
catch the last glimpse of him she loves.

Presently she sinks into a seat, always with her