“I believe those were your feelings then,” she replied.  “But let the past be buried.  I simply ask you now, as a gentleman who has it in his power to confer a great favor on an unprotected woman, whether you will manumit me.”

“Certainly I will,” answered he, much discomposed by her cool business tone.

She rose at once, and placed the writing-desk before him.  It was the pretty little desk he had given her for a birthday present.

He put his finger on it, and, looking up in her face, with one of his old insinuating glances, he said, “Rosa, do you remember what we said when I gave you this?”

Without answering the question, she said, “Will you have the goodness to write it now?”

“Why in such haste?” inquired he.  “I have given you my promise, and do you suppose I have no sense of honor?”

A retort rose to her lips, but she suppressed it.  “None of us can be sure of the future,” she replied.  “You know what happened when my dear father died.”  Overcome by that tender memory, she covered her eyes with her hand, and the tears stole through her fingers.

He attempted to kiss away the tears, but she drew back, and went on to say:  “At that time I learned the bitter significance of the law, ’The child shall follow the condition of the mother.’  It was not mainly on my own account that I sent for you, Mr. Fitzgerald.  I wish to secure my child from such a dreadful contingency as well-nigh ruined me and my sister.”  She blushed, and lowered her eyes as she spoke.

“O Rosa!” he exclaimed.  The impulse was strong to fold her to his heart; but he could not pass the barrier of her modest dignity.

After an embarrassed pause, she looked up bashfully, and said, “Knowing this, you surely will not refuse to write it now.”

“I must see a lawyer and obtain witnesses,” he replied.

She sighed heavily.  “I don’t know what forms are necessary,” said she.  “But I beg of you to take such steps as will make me perfectly secure against any accidents.  And don’t delay it, Mr. Fitzgerald.  Will you send the papers next week?”

“I see you have no confidence in me,” replied he, sadly.  Then, suddenly dropping on his knees beside her, he exclaimed, “O Rosa, don’t call me Mr. again.  Do call me Gerald once more!  Do say you forgive me!”

She drew back a little, but answered very gently:  “I do forgive you, and I hope your innocent little wife will never regret having loved you; for that is a very bitter trial.  I sincerely wish you may be happy; and you may rest assured I shall not attempt to interfere with your happiness.  But I am not strong enough to talk much.  Please promise to send those papers next week.”

He made the promise, with averted head and a voice that was slightly tremulous.