and stare through the rose-vines--"to dream always
of some beautiful thing that youth promised but
never gave, and that given might have ended in dull
routine and a brain so choked with little things that
memory too held nothing else."

"But Concha," cried Sturgis eagerly, "I could
give you far better than that. I could take you
away from here--to Boston, to Europe. You
should see--live your life--in the great cities you
have dreamed of--that you hardly believe in--that
were made to enjoy. I have told you of the theater,
the opera--you should go to the finest in the world.
You should wear the most beautiful gowns and
jewels, go to courts, see the great works of art--I
am not trying to bribe you," he stammered, flushing
miserably. "God forbid that I should stoop to any-
thing as mean as that. But it all rushed upon me
suddenly that I could give you so much that you
were made for, with this worthless money of mine.
And what happiness to be in Europe with you--
what--what--"

His voice trembled and broke, and he dared not
look at her. Again she stared through the vines.
A splendid and thrilling panorama rose beyond
them, her bosom heaved, her lips parted. She saw
herself in it, and not alone. And not, alas, with
the honest youth whose words had inspired it. In
a moment she shook her head and turned her eyes