But the struggle was not yet over:  the old fear and the new love fought a hard battle.  A fortnight of these alternate lights and shadows passed.  In his presence the poor girl tried to put on a brave face, but what she endured when alone could be seen in her loss of flesh and color.  Sometimes the doctor almost repented having brought this misery upon her, but he comforted himself by looking forward to the calm which must surely follow this storm.

One morning, Miss Lafitte not appearing at her usual time, Maurice became alarmed.  Fearing she might be ill, he went to her parlor to inquire:  his knock was responded to by Jane, who gave him a note evidently written in expectation of his coming.  It ran thus:  “Meet me this evening at seven on the rock that you know.”  Of course he knew the place:  it was where she had acknowledged her love.

As may be supposed, the young man was not late at the rendezvous, but he found Fay already there, walking restlessly up and down the contracted space.

“Sit down,” she began in the peremptory tone of extreme emotion; then clasping her hands as she stood before him, she said, “I wanted to see you—­”

“Not more than I wanted to see you,” he interrupted lightly.

Without noticing his remark, she continued hurriedly, “I wish to say that all between us is broken off.”

“It is not:  I won’t submit.”  He made a motion to rise.

“Do not come near me,” she cried with growing agitation.  “You have brought me my death.  Oh, Maurice!”—­here her voice sank pathetically—­“why did you make me love you?  I shall die—­nothing can persuade me to believe otherwise—­and it will be soon, soon, soon.”

“How very unreasonable, dear Fay!  You have long acknowledged your love, yet nothing has happened.”

“It is about to happen.”

“Come and sit by me,” he begged.

“Never again:  it must be ended.  All day this miserable feeling has oppressed me.  I have tried to shake it off, but cannot.  It is a warning—­it is horrible.  Death is near, close, close.  I must cease loving you or pay the penalty.”

Her wan face presented such a picture of grief, her, voice expressed such an excess of suffering, that Maurice felt his eyes grow dim.  Scarcely less moved than herself, he replied, “You cannot cease loving me, dear, dear Fay, nor can I bear to lose you.  Let us end this struggle by an immediate marriage.  You will then be calm—­you will be happy.  I will go to your father at once and make the arrangements:  he will consent when I explain.  There is a clergyman at the house, and a midnight train for New York.  Oh, my darling, do not hesitate:  this suspense is killing you.  Can’t you trust me, Fay?”

She listened eagerly:  his voice seemed to soothe her.  Seeing this, he rose, and, still speaking words of love, approached her.  Controlled by, yet fearing, his influence, she slowly retreated as he advanced.  Suddenly he cried as if in agony, “Fay, come to me!”