“If you are afraid of me,” he said, “I will build up a barrier between us.  Poor lamb, you would like to be free from the clutches of the wolf!”

“I am afraid of you,” said Miss Agnes, slowly,—­and the color came into her cheeks.  “You know your power over me.  I begged you, if you loved me, not to come to me.”

“And all for that foolish ring!  And the spirits of mischief betrayed its loss to you; it was none of my work that published it in the papers.  Can you let a fancy, an old story in a ring, disturb your faith in me?”

“If the faith is disturbed,” answered Miss Agnes, “what use in asking what has disturbed it?  Ernest, as you stand there, you cannot say you love me as you once professed to love me!”

“I can say that you are my guiding star,—­that, if you fail me, I fall away into ruin.”

“Can my little light keep you from ruin?” said Miss Agnes, shuddering.  “Do not talk to me so!  Alas, you know how weak I am!”

“I know that you are an angel, and that I am too low a wretch to dare to speak to you.  I came here to tell you I was worthy of your deepest hatred.  But, Agnes, when you speak to me of my power over you, it tempts me to wield it a little longer, before I fall below your contempt.”

He walked up and down the room, and presently saw me standing there.

“A listener!” he exclaimed; “you are afraid to be alone with me!”

I was about to leave the room, but he called me back.

“Stay, child!” he said; “if I can speak in her presence, it makes little difference that any one else should hear me.  Agnes, little Agnes, you would not like to be quite alone;—­let the child stay.  Yet you know already that I am faithless to you.  You know what I am going to tell you.  I love you, passionately, as I have always loved you.  But there are other passions hold me tighter.  Money, and position,—­I need them,—­I cannot live without them.  The first I have lost already, and the claims I have to reputation will follow soon.  I am mad.  I am flinging away happiness for the sake of its mask.  Next week I marry riches,—­a fortune.  With the golden lady, I go to Europe.  I forsake home,—­my better self.  I leave you, Agnes;—­and you may thank God that I do leave you; I am not worthy of you.”

She lifted herself from the chair on which she was leaning, and walked towards him.  She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and, white and pale, looked in his face.

“Do not go, Ernest!” she said.  “You are mine.  A promise cannot be broken;—­you are promised to me.—­Stay,—­do not go away!”

“My beautiful Agnes!” he said, “do you come to lay your pure self down in the scale against my follies and all my passions?  You stand before me too fair, too lovely for me.  It is only in your presence that I can appear noble enough for you.  Even here, by your side, I see the life I must lead with you, the struggle that you must share.  In that life you would only see me fail.  I am weak; I can never be strong.  Let me go down the current.  Your heart will not break;—­I am not worth such a sacrifice.”