"Philip Towne?"

"I should as soon think of loving St. John."

"Tell me, _do_ you love him?"

"Dr. Towne, I never thought of such a thing!" she said with quick indignation.

"You are a Mystic; Dr. Lake has named you true. Come, be sensible and don't talk riddles; don't talk like a book; talk plain, good sense; say _yes_, and leave all your whims behind you forever."

"Loving you was a whim; shall I leave that behind forever?"

"Yes."

"Then I could not endure your presence; it is that that keeps you near me now. It is not enough for you to love me; I should die of hunger if I did not love you."

"Love me, then."

Her head went down upon the arm of the chair; she covered her face with both hands; a childish att.i.tude she often a.s.sumed when alone.

"I can't, I can't! I want to; I would if I could! it's too late; I can't go back and see you as you were-"

"I have asked you to forgive me."

"I do, I do; but I do not love you as I want to love you. I shall never marry any one, you may be sure of that; I do not want to be married. Why must I? Who says I must?"

"I say so."

"Your authority I do not recognize. The voice must come from G.o.d to my own heart."

"Lift your head. Look at me."

She obeyed.

"I wish you to understand that I am not to be trifled with; this is definite; this is final; I have asked and you have refused. You need not play with me thinking that I shall ask you again, _I never shall_.

Remember, I never shall."

"I do not wish you to ask me again."

"Then this ends the matter."

"This ends the matter," she repeated.

"My mother is not well, she will miss you; you will stay with her just the same. She will not surmise any thing. She loves you as I did not know that one woman could love another."

"Is that why you wish to marry me?"

"No. I know my own mind. I have loved you ever since I knew you, but I was not aware of it; I did not know it until I knew that Miss Gerard was not like you."

"Oh, I am so sorry! This is the hardest of all. But I might grow not to like you at all; I might rush away from you; it takes so much love and confidence and sympathy to be willing to give one's self."

"I am not in a frame of mind to listen to such things; you forget that you have thrown me away for the sake of a whim!"

"I want to tell your mother; I can not bear for her to be so kind to me-"

"It isn't enough to hurt me, but you must hurt her, also. She would not understand-any more than I do-why you throw me away."

"I will not tell her, but I shall feel like a hypocrite. You will not utterly despise me."

"You can not expect me to feel very kindly towards you. Why may I not lose all but the memory of _you_?"

"You may. I am willing," she answered wearily. "Oh, I _wanted_ to be satisfied with you."

He had left the room with his last words, not waiting for reply.

And she could only cry out, with a dry, hard sob, "Oh, Ralph, Ralph, I _wanted_ to be satisfied with you!"

XIX.-THE OLD STORY.

One afternoon in the reading-room she found two notices of her book; one was in _Hearth and Home_, the other in _The Lutheran Observer_; the former ran in this style:

"'Under the Wings' by Theresa Louise Wadsworth is the most lifelike representation of a genuine live boy that we have seen for many a day.

We are almost tempted to think that the author was once a boy herself she is so heartily in sympathy with a boy's thoughts and feelings. It is a book that every boy ought to read, and we are confident that no boy can read it without being bettered by it."

The other she was more pleased with:

"Rob is a genuine boy, with all manner of faults and pranks; but a tender, truthful heart, and a determination for the right that brings him through safely. But specially is he delightful in juxtaposition with Nell, a little girl who says the quaintest things in the most laughable, most lovable manner. Altogether it is a thoroughly enjoyable book, sweet and saintly, too; though not saintly after the cut and dried style of youthful piety."

She turned the papers with a startled face as if the lady in the black cloak near her had guessed what she had looked for and had found; as if the blonde mustache hidden behind Emerson surmised that she had written a book and wondered why she had not attempted something deeper; as if Mr. Lewis Gesner reading a newspaper with his forehead puckered into a frown knew that she was slightly a blue-stocking, and decided that she might better be learning how to be a good wife for somebody.

"I _am_ commonplace," she soliloquized, running down the long flight of stairs; "ten years ago when my heroines were Rosalie and Viola, and their lovers bandits or princes in disguise, who would have believed that I could have settled down into writing good books for good little children?"

That evening Mr. Hammerton took from his memorandum book three square inches of printed matter, neatly and exactly folded, and dropped it into her hand.

"There's a feather in your cap, Lady Blue; it is plucked from the _Evening Mail_."

She read it, by the light of the shaded lamp, standing at the sitting-room table. Mrs. Wadsworth looked up from her work, regarding her curiously; Tessa did not observe the expression of pride and love that flitted across her face. Mrs. Wadsworth loved Tessa more than she loved any other human being; indeed, with all her capacity for loving; but Tessa would never discover it. Mrs. Wadsworth was not aware of it, herself; Mr. Wadsworth saw it and was glad. Tessa read eagerly:

"'Under the Wings' is the t.i.tle of an excellent book by Theresa Louise Wadsworth issued in neat form by--. The characters of the boyish hero-wilful, merry, irreverent, honest, and bold, and the heroine-happy, serious, inquiring, and lovable, are drawn with no mean skill, while the other personages, the kind and pious grandmother, the snappish, but well-meaning mother, the deacon, and others, are sketched with scarcely less truth and vividness. The development of the Christian faith in the soul of wild Rob is traced easily and naturally, the incidents are numerous and interesting; the whole movement of the story is in helpful sympathy with human hearts."

"What is it, daughter?" inquired her father arranging the chess-men.

"She is modest as well as famous. I will read it," said Mr. Hammerton, "and here's your letter from Dine; I knew that that would insure my welcome. Do you know, I forgot to inquire for myself? I never did such a thing before. Father will go to the mail, however."

Moving apart from the group, she ran through the long letter; coloring and biting her lips as she read. Mrs. Wadsworth's little rocker was drawn to the table; the light from the tall lamp fell over her face and hair, touching her hands and her work; the low, white forehead, the wavy hair, the pretty lips and chin were pleasant to look upon; when she was in a happy state of mind, this little lady was altogether kissable.