she, with a visible effort, "I hardly know what to say
to you; but there is something which I must tell you--my father wishes
you to leave us at once."

"And _you_, Bertha?"

"Well--yes--I wish it too."

She saw the painful shock which her words gave him, and she strove hard
to speak. Her lips trembled, her eyes became suffused with tears, which
grew and grew, but never fell; she could not utter a word.

"Well, Bertha," answered he, with a little quiver in his voice, "if
you, too, wish me to go, I shall not tarry. Good-by."

He rose quickly, and, with averted face, held out his hand to her; but
as she made no motion to grasp the hand, he began distractedly to
button his coat, and moved slowly away.

"Ralph."

He turned sharply, and, before he knew it, she lay sobbing upon his
breast.

"Ralph," she murmured, while the tears almost choked her words, "I
could not have you leave me thus. It is hard enough--it is hard
enough--"

"What is hard, beloved?"

She raised her head abruptly, and turned upon him a gaze full of hope
and doubt, and sweet perplexity.

"Ah, no, you do not love me," she whispered, sadly.

"Why should I come to seek you, after these many years, dearest, if I
did not wish to make you my wife before God and men? Why should I--"

"Ah, yes, I know," she interrupted him with a fresh fit of weeping,
"you are too good and honest to wish to throw me away, now when you
have seen how my soul has hungered for the sight of you these many
years, how even now I cling to you with a despairing clutch. But you
can not disguise yourself, Ralph, and I saw from the first moment that
you loved me no more.

"Do not be such an unreasonable child," he remonstrated, feebly. "I do
not love you with the wild, irrational passion of former years; but I
have the tenderest regard for you, and my heart warms at the sight of
your sweet face, and I shall do all in my power to make you as happy as
any man can make you who--"

"Who does not love me," she finished.

A sudden shudder seemed to shake her whole frame, and she drew herself
more tightly up to him.

"Ah, no," she continued, after a while, sinking back upon her seat. "It
is a hopeless thing to compel a reluctant heart. I will accept no
sacrifice from you. You owe me nothing, for you have acted toward me
honestly and uprightly, and I shall be a stronger or--at least--a
better woman for what you gave me--and--for what you could not give me,
even though you woul