"Of course I do," she replied, "I want to go where it is not as
lonesome as I find it here."

"Lonesome, Rosamond, lonesome," he repeated. "Riverside has never been
lonesome since--" he paused a moment and then added, "since you came
here."

The shadow disappeared from Rosamond's face, as she replied--"I did
not suppose you cared to have me here. I thought you did not like me."

"Not like you, Rosamond?" and over his fine features there came a look
of pain, which increased as Rosamond continued:--"You are so cold at
times, and shun me as it were; inventing excuses to drive me from you
when you know I would rather stay."

"Oh, Rosamond," he groaned, "how mistaken you are. The world would be
to me a blank were it not for you; and if my manner is sometimes cold
and cruel, it is because stern duty demands it should be so. I cannot
lay bare my secret heart to you of all others, but could you know me
as I am, you would censure much, but pity more." He paused a moment,
then, scarcely knowing what he said, he continued--"Rosamond, we will
understand each other. _I shall never marry_--never _can_ marry. In
your intercourse with me, will you always remember that?"

"Why, yes," answered Rosamond, puzzled to comprehend him. "I'll
remember that you say so, but it is not likely you'll keep your word."

"I am not trifling with you," he said." Marriage is not for _me_.
There is a dreadful reason why I cannot marry, and if at times I am