ion of filial duty were she to
disappoint them? And yet, what right had they to make a decision for
her when her own life's happiness was concerned? Was she not her own?
Had she not a right to do as she pleased? Ought she to sacrifice
herself to their selfish interests? She did not like to think it was
wholly selfishness on their part, but rather an earnest desire to
provide for her future welfare. Ought she not to abide their judgment
as to what was best for her? Could she ever be happy with Lord
Upperton? Could she find pleasure in fine dressing, card playing, and
masquerading as he had described them? What would such a life be
worth? Were position in society, pleasure, gratification of self, to
be the end and aim of life? There seemed to be another somebody beside
herself propounding the questions; as if an unseen visitor were
standing by her bedside in the silent night. Was she awake or
dreaming? She had heard the great lawyer, James Otis, put questions to
a witness in a court where her father in his judicial robe sat as
magistrate. It seemed as if she herself had been summoned to a
tribunal, and one more searching than the great lawyer was putting
questions which she must answer. Should she give her hand to Lord
Upperton and keep back her heart? Ought she to allow prospective
pleasure or position to influence her choice? Could she in any way
barter her future welfare for the present life and for the larger life
beyond? Was Lord Upperton of such lofty character that she could
render him honor and respect, even if she could not give to him a
loving heart?

In the half-dreaming hour another face looked down upon her--the face
of him, who, in a time of agony, had been as an angel of God, rescuing
her from the hands of ruffians. Oh, if it were he who solicited
permission to pay his addresses, how would she lean her head upon his
bosom and rest contentedly clasped forever by those strong and loving
arms! Through the intervening months his face had been ever present.
She lived again the hour of their first meeting, that of the afternoon
tea-party, the launching of the Berinthia Brandon, the ride in the
pung. She had received several letters from him, which were laid
carefully away in her writing-desk. Many times had they been read and
with increasing pleasure. He had not declared his undying love for
her; the declaration was unwritten, but it was between the lines. He
wanted to be more than he was, and she could help him