honest truth that triumphed over all conventionality. Norman, what she,
the 'loveliest maiden in Plymouth,' the beloved of Miles Standish, said
to John Alden, I say to you--'Why don't you speak for yourself?'"

There was infinite tenderness in his face as he bent over her--infinite
pain in his voice as he spoke to her.

"John Alden loved Priscilla," he said, slowly--"she was the one woman in
all the world for him--his ideal--his fate, but I--oh Philippa, how I
hate myself because I cannot answer you differently! You are my friend,
my sister, but not the woman I must love as my wife."

"When you urged me a few minutes since to marry your friend, you asked
me why I could not love him, seeing that he had all lovable qualities.
Norman, why can you not love me?"

"I can answer you only in the same words--I do not know. I love you with
as true an affection as ever man gave to woman; but I have not for you a
lover's love. I cannot tell why, for you are one of the fairest of fair
women."

"Fair, but not your 'ideal woman,'" she said, gently.

"No, not my 'ideal woman,'" he returned; "my sister, my friend--not my
love."

"I am to blame," she said, proudly; "but again I must plead that I am
like Priscilla. While you are pleading the cause of another, the truth
came uppermost; you must forgive me for speaking so forcibly. As the
poem says: