ou must forgive me, and forget it. You are not in
the least to blame. It is I who ought to have known that you could never
think of me as any thing but a father."

"Oh! it is not that," sobbed Mercy, vehemently,--"it is not that at all!
But it wouldn't be right."

Parson Dorrance would not have been human if Mercy's vehement "It is not
that,--it is not that!" had not fallen on his ear gratefully, and made
hope stir in his heart again. But her evident grief was too great for the
hope to last a moment.

"You may not know why it seems so wrong to you, dear child," he continued;
"but that is the real reason. There could be no other." He paused. Mercy
shuddered, and opened her lips to speak again; but the words refused to be
uttered. This was the supreme moment of pain. If she could but have
said,--

"I loved some one else long before I saw you. I was not my own. If it had
not been for that, I should have loved you, I know I should!" Even in her
tumult of suffering, she was distinctly conscious of all this. The words
"I could have loved him, I know I could! I can't bear to have him think it
is because he is so old," went clamoring in her heart, pleading to be
said; but she dared not say them.

Tenderly and patiently Parson Dorrance endeavored to soothe her, to
convince her that his words sprung from a hasty impulse which he would be
able wholly to put aside and forget. The one thing that he longed now to
do, the only reparation that he felt was left for him to make to her, was
to enable her, if possible, to look on him as she had done before. But
Mercy herself made this more difficult. Suddenly wiping her tears, she
looked very steadily into his face, and said slowly,--"It is not of the
least use, Mr. Dorrance, for you to say this sort of thing to me. You
can't deceive me. I know exactly how you love me, and how you always will
love me. And, oh, I wish I were dead! It can never be any thing but pain
to you to see me,--never," and she wept more bitterly than before.

"You do not know me, Mercy," replied the Parson, speaking as slowly as she
had done. "All my life has been one long sacrifice of my own chief
preferences. It is not hard for me to do it."

Mercy clasped her hands tighter, and groaned,--

"Oh, I know it! I know it! and I said you were on a plane above all
thought of personal happiness."

The Parson looked bewildered, but went on,--

"You do love me, my child, very dearly, do you not?"

"Oh, you know I