The publisher leaned eagerly forward, and gathered her hands in his; her words had inspired him with hope.

“Let me be more than a friend to you, dear,” he pleaded.  “Let me take care of you and your little one in the future.  I know that I am much older than you—­old enough almost to be your father; but my home is lonely.  I lost my wife ten years ago.  I have no children, and my heart is hungry for some one to love.  Dear child, you have been growing very dear to me ever since you first came to me, and if you can trust me, if you can give yourself to me, I will not ask too much, or even expect that you can feel a great deal of affection for me, for I know how sorely you have been tried and deceived in that respect; but let me persuade you to come to my home as my honored wife, and I will surround you with tenderest care.  Life shall be made as pleasant as possible for you, and there will be no need of your toiling any more.”

Virgie sat as one stunned after this unexpected proposal.

She had never thought of anything like this during all her intercourse with the kind-hearted publisher.  She had learned to esteem him very highly for his goodness to her, and to look up to him almost as to a father, but the thought of ever being any man’s wife again had never occurred to her.

She grew very pale at his words, and instinctively shrank a little from him.

That act told him far more than words could have done, and he knew at once that his cause was hopeless.

He gently released her hands, sighing regretfully, while a look of pain settled upon his fine face.

“Oh! my friend,” Virgie began, as soon as she could find her voice, “why have you said this to me?  I have not had the remotest suspicion of—­of your regard and what you have asked can never, never be.”

“Then forget that I have said anything about it, my dear.  I would not wound you for the world,” said the old gentleman, with exceeding gentleness, but with a still pained, white face.

“Oh, please do not think me ungrateful for all your kindness,” Virgie cried, the tears dropping thick and fast from her eyes; “but, believe me, I can never marry again.  I feel, morally speaking, that I am just as truly Sir William Heath’s wife to-day as I ever was, even though the law has rent the bond that existed between us.  I do not feel that a marriage can be broken except by death.”

“Then why did you appeal for a divorce?” interrupted Mr. Knight, with surprise.

“Simply that he might be free in the eyes of the world to make that other woman a legal wife—­so that she need not suffer such a wrong through me.”

“But she has already suffered it, if what you have heard is true.”

“That may be, but he now has it in his power to do her justice, if he chooses.  At all events, I can never feel free to change my condition in life.  My whole future must be devoted to the preparation of my child for the position which she will occupy by and by, for I am determined that she shall be acknowledged the rightful heir to Heathdale,” Virgie concluded, firmly.