close friendship at least, if there could be nothing more? And as to
that something more, was there no hope? He could give himself no grounds
for any such hope; and yet--so much had happened to him, and mostly
through her, that he could set no limit to the possibilities of
happiness that lay in her generous hands. When he saw her among others,
he despaired; when he thought of her alone, and of the gentleness of her
heart, he dared to hope. And if this declaration of his was distressing
to her, how easy it was for her to dismiss and forget it. If he had
dared too much, he had himself to blame. In any case, she need not fear
that her refusal should have the effect of dissociating them in those
wider interests and sympathies to which he had pledged himself. He was
not one to draw back. And if he had alarmed or offended her, he appealed
to her charity--to that great kindness which she seemed eager to extend
to all living creatures. How could such a vision of possible happiness
have arisen in his mind without his making one effort, however
desperate, to realize it? At the worst, she would forgive.

This was, in brief, the substance of what he wrote; but when, after many
an anxious re-reading, he put the letter in an envelope, he was
miserably conscious how little it conveyed of all the hope and desire
that had hold of his heart. But then, he argued with himself, if she
inclined her ear so far, surely he would have other and better
opportunities of pleading with her; whereas, if he had been dreaming of
impossibilities, then he and she would meet the more easily in the
future that he had not given too vehement an expression to all the love
and admiration he felt for her. He could not sacrifice her friendship
also--her society--the chances of listening from time to time to the
musical low, soft voice.

Carrying this fateful letter in his hand, he went down stairs and out