ons were not of that sort either; and
he gave it up and was silent, not knowing what to say, while Kitty, a
little piqued by his silence, went on: "We're not ashamed, you
understand, of our ways; there's such a thing as being proud of not
being proud; and that's what we are, or what I am; for the rest are not
mean enough ever to think about it, and once I wasn't, either. But
that's the kind of life I'm used to; and though I've read of other kinds
of life a great deal, I've not been brought up to anything different,
don't you understand? And maybe--I don't know--I mightn't like or
respect your kind of people any more than they did me. My uncle taught
us ideas that are quite different from yours; and what if I shouldn't be
able to give them up?"

"There is only one thing I know or see: I love you!" he said,
passionately, and drew nearer by a step; but she put out her hand and
repelled him with a gesture.

"Sometimes you might be ashamed of me before those you knew to be my
inferiors,--really common and coarse-minded people, but regularly
educated, and used to money and fashion. I should cower before them, and
I never could forgive you."

"I've one answer to all this: I love you!"

Kitty flushed in generous admiration of his magnanimity, and said, with
more of tenderness than she had yet felt towards him, "I'm sorry that I
can't answer you now, as you wish, Mr. Arbuton."

"But you will, to-morrow."

She shook her head. "I don't know; O, I don't know! I've been thinking
of something. That Mrs. March asked me to visit her in Boston; but we
had given up doing so, because of the long delay here. If I asked my
cousins, they'd still go home that way. It's too bad to put you off
again; but you must see me in Boston, if only for a day or two, and
after you've got back into your old associations there, before I answer
you. I'm in great trouble. You must wait, or I must say no."

"I'll wait," said Mr. Arbuton.

"O, _thank_ you," sighed Kitty, grateful for this patience, and not for
the chance of still winning him; "you are very forbearing, I'm sure."

She again put forth her hand, but not now to repel him. He clasped it,
and kept it in his, then impulsively pressed it against his lips.

Colonel and Mrs. Ellison had been watching the whole pantomime,
forgotten.

"Well," said the colonel, "I suppose that's the end of the play, isn't
it? I don't like it, Fanny; I don't like it."

"Hush!" whispered Mrs. Ellison.

They w