ly any woman to tell me what I should do and say.
But--but I thought you were going to America--I thought I should never
see you again--I was lonely and miserable; and when I saw you again, how
could I help saying I was glad? How could I help saying that, and
more?--for I never knew it till now. Oh, my love, do you know that you
have become the whole world to me? When you are away from me, I would
rather die than live!"

"Natalie--my life!"

"I must say that to you--once--that you may understand--if we should
never see each other again. And now--"

She gently released herself from his embrace, and went and sat down by
the table. He took a chair near her and held her hand. She would not
look up, for her eyes were still wet with tears.

"And now," she said, making a great effort to regain her self-control,
"you must tell me about yourself. A woman may have her feelings and
fancies, and cry over them when she is afraid or alone; that is nothing;
it is the way of the world. It is a man's fate that is of importance."

"You must not talk like that, Natalie," said he gravely. "Our fate is
one. Without you, I don't value my life more than this bit of
geranium-leaf; with you, life would be worth having."

"And you must not talk like that either," she said. "Your life is
valuable to others. Ah, my dear friend, that is what I have been trying
to console myself with of late. I said, 'Well, if he goes away and does
not see me again, will he not be freer? He has a great work to do; he
may have to go away from England for many years; why should he be
encumbered with a wife?"

"It was your father, I presume, who made those suggestions to you?" said
Brand, regarding her.

"Yes; papa said something like that," she answered, quite innocently.
"That is what would naturally occur to him; his work has always the
first place in his thoughts. And with you, too; is it not so?"

"No."

She looked up quickly.

"I will be quite frank with you, Natalie. You have the first place in my
thoughts; I hope you ever will have, while I am a living man. But cannot
I give the Society all the work that is in me equally well, whether I
love you or whether I don't, whether you become my wife or whether you
do not? I have no doubt your father has been talking to you as he has
been talking to me."

She placed her disengaged hand on the top of his, and said, gently,

"My father perhaps does not quite understand you; perhaps he is too
anxious. I, f