ange," I went on, "when he seemed this winter to take a
little notice of me, and to want to have me near him. I really almost
thought he cared for me. And when I was so ill last Fall, don't you
remember how often he used to come up to my room?"

"I remember--yes. It is all very strange."

"And some days early in the winter, when I could scarcely speak at
table, I was so unhappy, he would look at me so long, and seem to think.
And then would be very kind and gentle afterward, and do something to
show he liked me--give me money, you know, as he always did."

"Tell me, Pauline: did he ever ask you anything about last summer, or
did you ever tell him?"

"No, Richard, I could never have spoken to him about it; and he never
asked me. But I know he saw that I was not happy."

"Pauline," said Richard, after a pause, and as if forcing himself to
speak, "there is no use in disguising from you what your position is:
you know it yourself, enough of it, at least, to make you understand why
I speak now. I don't know of any way out of it, but one; and I feel as
if it were ungenerous to press that on you now, and, Heaven knows, I
would not do it if I could think of anything else to offer to you. You
know, Pauline, that if you will marry me, you will have everything that
you need, as much as if your uncle had left you everything."

He did not look at me, but paced up and down the platform, and spoke
with a thick, husky voice.

"You know it's been the object of my life, ever since I knew you, but I
don't want that to influence you. I know it is too soon, a great deal
too soon. And I would not have done it, if I could have seen anything
else to do, or if you could have done without me."

I must have been deadly pale, for when at last he looked at me, he
started.

"I don't know how it is," he said, with a groan, "I always have to give
you pain, when, Heaven knows, I'd give my life to spare you every
suffering. I can't see any other way to take care of you than the way I
tell you of, and yet, I have no doubt you think me cruel, and selfish,
to ask you to do it now. It does seem so, and yet it is not. If you knew
how much it has cost me to speak, you would believe it."

"I do believe it," I said, trying to command my voice. "I think you have
always been too good and kind to me. But I can't tell you how this makes
me feel. Oh, Richard, isn't there any, any other way?"

"Perhaps there may be," he said, with a bitter and disappointe