h sharp scorn.
Suddenly she sprang up from her chair and stood before the young man,
every nerve in her slight body quivering with the fire of eloquence.
"Now listen, Jerome Edwards," said she. "I know who and what you are,
and I know who and what my daughter is. I give you your full due. You
have traits which are above the common, and out of the common; some
which are noble, and some which render you dangerous to the peace of
any one who loves you. I give you your full due, and I give my
daughter hers. I can say it without vanity--it is the simple
truth--Lucina has had her pick and choice among many. She could have
wedded, had she chosen, in high stations. She has a face and
character which win love for her wherever she goes. I am not here to
offer or force my daughter upon any unwilling lover. If I had not
been sure, from what she has told me, and from what I have observed,
that you were perfectly honest in your affection for her, I should
not have sent for you to-night. I--"

She stopped, for Jerome burst out with a passion which startled her.
"Honest! Oh, my God! I love her so that I am nothing without her. I
love her more than the whole world, more than my own life!"

"Then give up your pride for her, if you love her," said Abigail,
sharply.

"My pride!"

"Yes, your pride. You have given away everything else, but how dare
you think yourself generous when you have kept the thing that is
dearest of all? You generous--you! Talk of Simon Basset! You are a
miser of a false trait in your own character. You are a worse miser
than he, unless you give it up. What are you, that you should say, 'I
will go through life, and I will give, and not take?' What are you,
that you should think yourself better than all around you--that you
should be towards your fellow-creatures as a god, conferring
everything, receiving nothing? If you love my daughter, prove it.
Take what she has to give you, and give her, what is worth more than
money, if you had the riches of Croesus, the pride of your heart."

Jerome stood before her, looking at her. Then, without a word, he
went across the room to a window, and stood there, his back towards
her, his face towards the moonlight night outside.

"Is it pride or principle?" he said, hoarsely, without turning his
head.

"Pride."

Jerome stood silently at the window. Abigail watched him, her brows
contracted, her fingers twitching; there were red spots on her
cheeks. This had cost her dear