as not made to live alone, but that a certain
woman must share his life with him, or that life is an utterly
worthless thing. I have learned that there is but one woman in the
world who can help me to the better, loftier aspirations of man, and
that woman is--you, Prudence."

The girl had ceased to work, and was staring straight in front of her
out of the window, where the vivid lightning was now flashing
incessantly. As Iredale pronounced the last words she shook her head
slowly--almost helplessly. The man had leaned forward in his chair,
and his elbows rested on his parted knees, and his hands were tightly
clasped.

"Don't shake your head, dear," he went on, with persuasive earnestness.
"Hear me out first, and then you shall give me your decision. I know I
am much older than you, but surely that disparity need not stand in
our way. I dare say I have many more years of life yet left than lots of
younger men. Besides, I am rich--very rich. With me you can live the
life you choose. If you wish to stay here on the prairie, why, you
shall have the most perfect farm that money can buy; if, on the
other hand, you choose to see the world, you only have to say the word.
Prudence, I know I am not a very attractive man. I have little to
recommend me, and my life has not always been spent as perhaps it
should have been; but I love you very dearly, and my future shall be
devoted to your happiness. Will you be my wife?"

There was a deafening crash of thunder which seemed to come from
directly overhead. The dog started up with a growl. Then he stood
looking up into the girl's face. The dying reverberations slowly
rolled away and left the room in deathly silence. The serious light in
the girl's eyes was augmented by the decided set of her mouth. She
kept her face studiously turned from Iredale, who, observing with all
the intuition of a man in deadly earnest, read in her expression
something of what his answer was to be.

"Can you not--do you not care for me sufficiently?"

The words contained such a world of appeal that Prudence felt herself
forced to turn in his direction. She now looked squarely into his
eyes, nor was there the faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her
manner. The moment had come when she must choose between herself and
her self-imposed duty. She knew that she loved Iredale, but--she
checked something which sounded very like a sigh. She had listened to
the precepts of Sarah Gurridge all her life, and, in c