in its eagerness. It was hardly possible to think; but Jenny did not think; she was only conscious of distress, and pain, and oppression. Why could not Anthony see that his love was a mistake, that his kindness was a burden? she wondered fretfully, and that her heart was still sore with disappointment is the only excuse that can be offered for such fretfulness. She hardly knew that she was silent, but Anthony knew, and the silence pleased him.

"If you will think of it, dear," he said, laying one of his big brown hands upon her shoulder with a kind of fatherly instinct. "If you will think of it, you will see why I have come at this inopportune moment. might have been better for me to have waited awhile, but I couldn't wait. We are not strangers to each other. If you cannot love

It

me just now, I feel certain that you will love me,-no; don't interrupt me; I hope I say it without presumption, but I feel as if it were impossible that such love as mine should live and grow and never awaken any response in you,-never be anything to you at all; never be anything to me but a life-long hunger and aching of heart."

Jenny had been thinking, and had hardly heard the last words. Perhaps, after all, there was something generous in Anthony's coming at such a time, on such an errand. How blind she had been! How good he was! "Anthony," she said, looking up sadly, speaking with a quiet pathetic voice. "I know you have not forgotten, though you forbear to remind me. Some time ago I told you that I did love you. I thought I did, but I did not know what love was. I know

now. This that you ask can never be. There is no one in the world like you. I care more think. But I can never

for

you than you

love you."

66

Jenny, Jenny, think again before you say that!" Anthony exclaimed, with changing face and voice. Past suffering had lent a power to Jenny's tone and word and manner that was undermining his hope rapidly. It is difficult to plead with a sinking heart, but Anthony did plead

"Think again, Jenny," he said, controlling his distress with an effort. "It is not only for my own sake I plead, but for yours, and your father's. Think how much better it would be if we were to go away from Cleveden at once for awhile, and to take him

Jenny, I know I could. And think of my

mother and Rachel, what a pleasure it would If you cannot, if it is

be to them.

impossible for you to say the word I want you to say just now, take a little time to think of it, give me a little hope.”

"That would be wrong," she said, with the old shadow of trouble coming into her eyes. She could say no more just then; her voice sounded full of sobs and tears. Rising from her chair she walked toward the window, and bent over her plants for a minute or two. Then she came back again.

"Anthony," she said, in a calm voice, and with wistful beseeching eyes, " Anthony don't ask me any more. You know all that has been. There is no hope for me.

There can

never be any hope. I should like to lie down,

and die. .. . . Please don't ask me any

more !"

Anthony had told himself that he had very little hope, yet he was strangely unprepared for disappointment. He was crushed, powerless to move or speak. He could not but do as she wished. It would have been cruelty to deny a thing asked with such wistful earnestness! She was asking it still, he thought, as his eyes met hers again; there was a timid helplessness about her that appealed to the most unselfish side of his love. No; he would not trouble her again.

Then

a great silence fell upon him; there was nothing with him save the remembrance of past pain, the foretaste of pain to come.

Jenny was silent too. Had she pained him more than she need have done? She feared to ask him, to give any sign that might look like change of feeling.

Anthony spoke again there

But when

was a little