rench body from soul."

"Mr. Raymond is a very old man," I suggested.

"He has a surer life than mine: I doubt if anybody would insure mine
at any price."

We were silent. I felt awkward and ashamed: I knew what was in his
thoughts.

"You wise young people!" said he presently, throwing his arm over my
shoulder--"oh, you wise young people!" Then turning me square about,
he looked into my face: "Oh, you foolish, foolish young people!"

I felt foolish indeed--so foolish I could not meet his eyes.

"Why begrudge us a few years of happiness together?" he asked in his
deliberate gentle voice. "Your mother is still young, and so beautiful
that she deserves to shine in a sphere worthy of her. I will say
nothing of my profound and respectful love for her. My love for Alice
was my passionate worship of a singularly charming child: your mother
commands a different feeling. But of that I will say nothing. Think,
Floyd, what a life I can offer her! It seems to me that in marrying me
she will gain much: what can she lose?"

What, indeed, could she lose? My doubt and dread shrank into
insignificant and petty proportions: it seemed to me the noblest fate
for any woman alive to gain the love of this man into whose face I was
looking earnestly. Yet I could find no words to utter, and he went on
as if trying to convince me against my will.

"You do not appear to entertain any aversion for me," he pursued,
smiling, "and in our new relation I will take care that you do not
like me less. You are dear to me now, yet when your mother is my wife
you will be much dearer."

My self-control vanished: my lip trembled. "What does mother say?" I
asked almost in a whisper.

He put his hands on my shoulders, laughing softly: "She says she has a
son whose love and respect she so highly prizes she will do nothing to
forfeit them."

"Does she love you, Mr. Floyd?" I questioned bluntly.

"I think she does--a little," he answered, dropping his eyes. "But,"
he went on more hurriedly, "in such a marriage love is not everything,
Floyd, although it is much. There is sympathy, constant close
companionship: of these both your mother and I have bitterly felt the
need."

"Don't say any more, sir," I cried, humbled to the dust. "When I first
saw what was coming I suppose I thought only of myself: now--"

"Now you think of two other people, and withdraw your opposition. I
confess I can't see how you will be worse off. Come now, give me your
hand, y