Mr. Hargrove poured some water into a goblet, and as he held it to
her lips, murmured compassionately:

"Poor child! God help you."

Perhaps the genuine pity in the tone brought back sweet memories of
the bygone, and for a moment softened the girl's heart, for tears
gathered in the large eyes, giving them a strange quivering radiance.
As if ashamed of the weakness she threw her head back defiantly, and
continued:

"I was the poor little orphan, whose grandmother did washing and
mending for the college boys--only little unknown Minnie Merle, with
none to aid in asserting her rights;--and she--the new wife--was a
banker's daughter, an heiress, a fashionable belle,--and so Minnie
Merle must be trampled out, and the new Mrs. Cuthbert Laurance dashes
in her splendid equipage through the Bois de Bologne. Sir, give me my
license!"

Mr. Hargrove opened a secret drawer in the tall writing-desk that
stood in one corner of the room, and, unlocking a square tin box,
took from it a folded slip of paper. After some deliberation he
seated himself, and began to write.

Impatiently his visitor paced the floor, followed by Biörn, who now
and then growled suspiciously.

At length, when the pastor laid down his pen, his guest came to his
side, and held out her hand.