her indifference to seeing the glories of Niagara and
the sublimities of the White Mountains was caused by his companionship not
being her heart's choice (which was all he knew about it!), and the idea
gave him angry pain and a passionate desire to win her in spite of all.

As they stood the next morning ready equipped for their journey, he put
his arm around her, saying, "I've been very happy, little wife, here with
you. Are you glad you happened to be here that August day, and that I saw
you?"

"I have had no cause to regret it," she said quietly.

"But you are not glad," he said, taking his arm away.

"As glad, Ross, as I can be for anything--more glad than I am for most
things."

He looked at her with a sigh. "My father--and I am like him--loved only
once." Her words came constantly into his mind. "I came too late," he
thought; and it seemed to him this little plain woman, looking wan and
pale in the early morning light, was better worth winning than any other
earthly thing he had ever known. He had left her side, and was standing
looking with a frown out of the window as they awaited the summons to
breakfast. After a while she came and stood beside him, leaning her head
against his arm. He turned slightly toward her, but took no further notice
of the action. She stayed so for a while, then said, softly stealing her
hand in his as it lay upon the window-ledge, "Dear Ross, I _am_ glad: I am
happier than I ever dreamed it possible for me to be. I would not undo the
deed we have done so long as you are content. I like being with you
dearly, and I like to think that so long as I live I shall be your
wife--your little girl to whom you are so very tender and good."

"My Preciosa"--and he drew her into his arms--"so long as we both shall
live, you mean. I want no life without you now." Then turning her, face
up, he scanned it hastily: "You are so white, my pet, so deathly pale! Are
you ill, my Percy?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "I think I need my breakfast: I have been up a
couple of hours, and I did not sleep very much all night."

"My poor little girl; when I get you safely home in those famous rooms of
ours, perhaps you'll get some rest. But you talk in this strange way of
dying: just now you did, and once before in your letter. What makes you do
it? Is there anything the matter of which you have not told me?"

"Nothing--only my life seemed ended, Ross, as if all my places were filled
and I was no more neede