“And did it tell you no secret?—­Why was Beulah’s hair not with it?  Why did I cherish your hair, Maud, and your’s alone?  You have not understood me!”

“I have, dear, dear Bob!—­You love me—­you wished to say we are not brother and sister, in truth; that we have an affection that is far stronger—­one that will bind us together for life.  Do not look so wretched, Bob; I understand everything you wish to say.”

“This is so very extraordinary!—­So unlike yourself, Maud, I know not what to make of it!  I sent you that box, beloved one, to say that you had my whole heart; that I thought of you day and night; that you were the great object of my existence, and that, while misery would be certain without you, felicity would be just as certain with you; in a word, that I love you, Maud, and can never love another.”

“Yes, so I understood you, Bob.”—­Maud, spite of her concentration of feeling on the dreadful secret, could not refrain from blushing—­“It was too plain to be mistaken.”

“And how was my declaration received?  Tell me at once, dear girl, with your usual truth of character, and frankness—­can you, will you love me in return?”

This was a home question, and, on another occasion, it might have produced a scene of embarrassment and hesitation.  But Maud was delighted with the idea that it was in her power to break the violence of the blow she was about to inflict, by setting Robert Willoughby’s mind at ease on this great point.

“I do love you, Bob,” she said, with fervent affection beaming in every lineament of her angel face—­“have loved you, for years—­how could it be otherwise?  I have scarce seen any other to love; and how see you, and refrain?”

“Blessed, blessed, Maud—­but this is so strange—­I fear you do not understand me—­I am not speaking of such affection as Beulah bears me, as brother and sister feel; I speak of the love that my mother bore my father—­of the love of man and wife”——­

A groan from Maud stopped the vehement young man, who received his companion in his arms, as she bowed her head on his bosom, half fainting.

“Is this resentment, dearest, or is it consent?” he asked, bewildered by all that passed.

“Oh!  Bob—­Father—­father—­father!”

“My father!—­what of him, Maud?  Why has the allusion to him brought you to this state?”

“They have killed him, dearest, dearest Bob; and you must now be father, husband, brother, son, all in one.  We have no one left but you!”

A long pause succeeded.  The shock was terrible to Robert Willoughby, but he bore up against it, like a man.  Maud’s incoherent and unnatural manner was now explained, and while unutterable tenderness of manner—­a tenderness that was increased by what had just passed—­was exhibited by each to the other, no more was said of love.  A common grief appeared to bind their hearts closer together, but it was unnecessary to dwell on their mutual affection in words.  Robert Willoughby’s sorrow mingled with that of Maud, and, as he folded her to his heart, their faces were literally bathed in each other’s tears.