at he said. And she liked him so well that,
for his own sake, she desired that he might be gratified. As far as
she knew herself, she had no desire to be Harry Gilmore's wife. The
position was not even one in which she could allow herself to look
for consolation on one side, for disappointments on the other. She
had read about love, and talked about love; and she desired to be
in love. Certainly she was not in love with this man. She had begun
to doubt whether it would ever be given to her to love,--to love as
her friend Janet loved Frank Fenwick. Janet loved her husband's very
footsteps, and seemed to eat with his palate, hear with his ears, and
see with his eyes. She was, as it were, absolutely a bone from her
husband's rib. Mary thought that she was sure that she could never
have that same feeling towards Henry Gilmore. And yet it might come;
or something might come which would do almost as well. It was likely
that Janet's nature was softer and sweeter than her own,--more prone
to adapt itself, like ivy to a strong tree. For herself, it might be,
that she could never become as the ivy; but that, nevertheless, she
might be the true wife of a true husband. But if ever she was to be
the true wife of Harry Gilmore, she could not to-day say that it
should be so.

"I suppose I must answer you," she said, very gently.

"If you tell me that you are not ready to do so I will wait, and come
again. I shall never change my mind. You may be sure of that."

"But that is just what I may not do, Mr. Gilmore."

"Who says so?"

"My own feelings tell me so. I have no right to keep you in suspense,
and I will not do it. I respect and esteem you most honestly. I have
so much liking for you that I do not mind owning that I wish that it
were more. Mr. Gilmore, I like you so much that I would make a great
sacrifice for you; but I cannot sacrifice my own honesty or your
happiness by making believe that I love you."

For a few moments he sat silent, and then there came over his face a
look of inexpressible anguish,--a look as though the pain were almost
more than he could bear. She could not keep her eyes from his face;
and, in her woman's pity, she almost wished that her words had been
different.

"And must that be all?" he asked.

"What else can I say, Mr. Gilmore?"

"If that must be all, it will be to me a doom that I shall not know
how to bear. I cannot live here without you. I have thought about you
till you have become mixed