"You do not simply pity me? You have not, because you heard from Mrs.
Simm, or suspected, yourself, that I was weak enough to mistake your
kindness and nobleness,--you have not in pity resolved to sacrifice
your happiness to mine?"

"No, Ivy,--nothing of the kind. I pity only myself. I reverence you, I
think. I have hoped that you loved me as a teacher and friend. I dared
not believe you could ever do more; now something within tells me that
you can. Can you, Ivy? If the love and tenderness and devotion of my
whole life can make you happy, happiness shall not fail to be yours."

Ivy's gaze never for a moment drooped under his, earnest and piercing
though it was.

"Now I am happy," she said, slowly and distinctly. "Now I am blessed. I
can never ask anything more."

"But I ask something more," he replied, bending forward eagerly. "I ask
much more. I want your love. Shall I have it? And I want you."

"My love?" She blushed slightly, but spoke without hesitation. "Have I
not given it,--long, long before you asked it, before you even cared
for my friendship? Not love only, but life, my very whole being,
centred in you, does now, and will always. Is it right to say
this?--maidenly? But I am not ashamed. I shall always be proud to have
loved you, though only to lose you,--and to be loved by you is glory
enough for all my future."

For a short time the relative position of these two people was changed.
I allude to the change in this distant manner, as all who have ever