d.

At that he came close to her, not touching her hand or even her dress,
but looking into her face with imploring eyes, and whispering,
"Francesca, my darling, speak to me! say that you love me! one word! You
are breaking my heart!"

Not a word.

"Francesca!"

She had mastered her voice. "Go!" she then said, beseechingly. "Oh, why
did you ask me? why did I let you come?"

"No, no," he answered. "I cannot go,--not till you answer me."

"Ah!" she entreated, "do not ask! I can give no such answer as you
desire. It is all wrong,--all a mistake. You do not comprehend."

"Make me, then."

She was silent.

"Forgive me. I am rude: I cannot help it. I will not go unless you say,
'I do not love you.' Nothing but this shall drive me away."

Francesca's training in her childhood had been by a Catholic governess;
she never quite lost its effect. Now she raised her hand to a little
gold cross that hung at her neck, her fingers closing on it with a
despairing clasp. "Ah, Christ, have pity!" her heart cried. "Blessed
Mother of God, forgive me! have mercy upon me!"

Her face was frightfully pale, but her voice did not tremble as she gave
him her hand, and said gently, "Go, then, my friend. I do not love you."

He took her hand, held it close for a moment, and then, without another
look or word, put it tenderly down, and was gone.

So absorbed was he in painful thought that, passing down the long avenue
with bent head, he did not notice, nor even see, a gentleman who, coming
from the opposite direction, looked at him at first carelessly, and then
searchingly, as he went by.

This gentleman, a man in the prime of life, handsome, stately, and
evidently at home here, scrutinized the stranger with a singular
intensity,--made a movement as though he would speak to him,--and then,
drawing back, went with hasty steps towards the house.

Had Willie looked up, beheld this face and its expression, returned the
scrutiny of the one, and comprehended the meaning of the other, while
memory recalled a picture once held in his hands, some things now
obscured would have been revealed to him, and a problem been solved. As
it was, he saw nothing, moved mechanically onward to the carriage,
seated himself and said, "Home!"

This young man was neither presumptuous nor vain. He had been once
repulsed and but now utterly rejected. He had no reason to hope, and
yet--perhaps it was his poetical and imaginative temperament--he could
not resi