“You are so kind to me, Mr. Saltram,” she faltered, after a troubled pause; “so ready to help me in my perplexities, I only wish you would allow me to be of some use to you in yours, if you have any perplexities; and I suppose everybody has, of some kind or other.  I should be so proud if you would give me your confidence—­so proud and happy!” Her voice trembled a little as she said this, looking up at him all the while with soft confiding blue eyes, the fair delicate face looking its prettiest in the coquettish widow’s head-gear.

A man must have been harder of heart than John Saltram who could remain unmoved by a tenderness so evident.  This man was touched, and deeply.  The pale careworn face grew more troubled, the firmly-moulded lips quivered ever so little, as he looked down at the widow’s pleading countenance; and then he turned his head aside with a sudden half-impatient movement.

“My dear Mrs. Branston, you are too good to me; I am unworthy, I am in every way unworthy of your kindness.”

“You are not unworthy, and that is no answer to my question; only an excuse to put me off.  We are such old friends, Mr. Saltram, you might trust me.  You own that you have been worried—­overworked—­worried about money matters, perhaps.  I know that gentlemen are generally subject to that kind of annoyance; and you know how rich I am, how little employment I have for my money, though you can never imagine how worthless and useless it seems to me.  Why won’t you trust me? why won’t you let me be your banker?”

She blushed crimson as she made this offer, dreading that the man she loved would turn upon her fiercely in a passion of offended pride.  She sat before him trembling, dreading the might of his indignation.

But there was no anger in John Saltram’s face when he looked round at her; only grief and an expression that was like pity.

“The offer is like you,” he said with suppressed feeling; “but the worries of which I spoke just now are not money troubles.  I do not pretend to deny that my affairs are embarrassed, and have been for so long that entanglement has become their normal state; but if they were ever so much more desperate, I could not afford to trade upon your generosity.  No, Mrs. Branston, that is just the very last thing in this world that I could consent to do.”

“It is very cruel of you to say that,” Adela answered, with the tears gathering in her clear blue eyes, and with a little childish look of vexation, which would have seemed infinitely charming in the eyes of a man who loved her.  “There can be no reason for your saying this, except that you do not think me worthy of your confidence—­that you despise me too much to treat me like a friend.  If I were that Mr. Fenton now, whom you care for so much, you would not treat me like this.”

“I never borrowed a sixpence from Gilbert Fenton in my life, though I know that his purse is always open to me.  But friendship is apt to end when money transactions begin.  Believe me, I feel your goodness, Mrs. Branston, your womanly generosity; but it is my own unworthiness that comes between me and your kindness.  I can accept nothing from you but the sympathy which it is your nature to give to all who need it.”