down, and she raised her hands
to her face to hush the burst of anguish. It would not be repressed, and
one low cry, deep with the sense of desertion and captivity, sounded
through the deepening room and smote Milburn's innermost heart. He
obeyed an impulse he had not felt since his mother died, starting
towards Vesta and throwing his arms around her, and drawing her to his
breast.

"Honey, honey," he whispered, kissing her like a child, "don't cry now,
honey. It will break my heart."

The act of nature seldom is misinterpreted; Vesta, having labored so
long alone with this obdurate man, her young faculties of the head
strained by the first encounter beyond her strength, accepted the
friendship of his sympathy and contrition, as if he had been her father.
In a few moments the paroxysm of grief was past, and she disengaged his
arms.

"You are not merciless," said Vesta. "Tell me what I must do! You have
broken my father down and he cannot come to my help. Take pity on my
inequality and advise me!"

"Alas! child," said Milburn, "my advice must be in my own interest,
though I wish I could find your confidence. I am a poor creature, and do
not know how. It is you who must encourage the faith I feel starting
somewhere in this room, like a chimney swallow that would fain fly out.
Chirrup, chirrup to it, and it may come!"

Standing a moment, trying to collect her thoughts and wholly failing,
Vesta accepted the confidence he held out to her with open arms.
Blushing as she had never blushed in her life, though he could not know
it in the evening dark, she walked to him and kissed him once.

"Will that encourage you to advise me like a friend?" she said.

"Alas! no," sighed Milburn fervently, "it makes me the more your unjust
lover. I cannot advise you away from me. Oh, let me plead for myself. I
love you!"

"Then what shall I do," exclaimed Vesta, in low tones, "if you are
unable to rise to the height of my friend, and my father is your slave?
Do you think God can bless your prosperity, when you are so hard with
your debtor? On me the full sacrifice falls, though I never was in your
debt consciously, and I have never to my remembrance wished injury to
any one."

"Would you accept your father's independence at the expense of the most
despised man in Princess Anne?" Milburn spoke without changing his kind
tone. "Would you let me give him the fruit of many years of hard toil
and careful saving, in order that I shall be