Bertha was going to return to her home on
the sea-coast in a week. Ralph stood in the
little low-ceiled parlor, as she imagined, to bid
her good-bye. They had been speaking of her
father, her brothers, and the farm, and she had
expressed the wish that if he ever should come
to that part of the country he might pay them
a visit. Her words had kindled a vague hope
in his breast, but in their very frankness and
friendly regard there was something which
slew the hope they had begotten. He held her
hand in his, and her large confiding eyes shone
with an emotion which was beautiful, but was
yet not love.

"If you were but a peasant born like myself,"
said she, in a voice which sounded almost tender,
"then I should like to talk to you as I would to
my own brother; but--"

"No, not brother, Bertha," cried he, with
sudden vehemence; "I love you better than I ever
loved any earthly being, and if you knew how
firmly this love has clutched at the roots of my
heart, you would perhaps--you would at least
not look so reproachfully at me."

She dropped his hand, and stood for a moment silent.

"I am sorry that it should have come to this,