Then he asked himself if it would be safe for him to tell her of his love then and there, lay his fortune at her feet, and thus relieve her from her present trouble and all anxiety for the future.

But he feared she might resent the offer, coming at such a time—­think it was prompted more by pity than affection, and reject it as scornfully as she had refused his offer of a loan.

She was very attractive as she sat there before him, her white hands folded on her lap, her eyes cast down in troubled thought, and a grieved expression about her beautiful mouth, and he longed, with all the earnestness of his generous nature, to help her in this emergency.

Suddenly his face lighted.

“Are you willing to confide in me the amount of your indebtedness, Mrs. Bently?” he gently asked.

She falteringly named a sum that staggered him, and told him that she had indeed been very extravagant.

“I—­I have always had what I wanted.  I have never had to count the cost of anything, for my husband was very generous and indulgent,” she apologized, with evident embarrassment, as she met his grave look.

“May I make a practical suggestion without the fear of offending you?” the young man questioned, with some confusion.

“Oh, if you would!” cried his companion, eagerly, her face brightening, while she uttered a sigh of relief, as if she expected that his suggestion, whatever it might be, would lift the burden from her heart.

“You have some very costly jewels,” Mr. Cutler remarked, the color deepening in his cheek as he glanced at the flashing stones in her ears; “perhaps you would be willing to dispose of them and thus relieve yourself from your present embarrassment.”

“Oh, you mean sell my—­my diamonds?” cried the lovely widow, with a little nervous sob, and instantly her two white hands went up to her ears, covering the blazing gems from his sight, while a painful flush leaped to her brow and lost itself beneath the soft rings of her burnished hair.

“Yes,” pursued Mr. Cutler, wondering at her confusion.  “If I am any judge, they are very valuable stones, and I suppose you might realize a handsome sum upon them.”

He was secretly planning to redeem them and restore them to her later, if she should favorably regard his suit.

“But—­but;” and her confusion became intensified a hundred-fold, “they aren’t real.  I’d be glad enough if they were, and would willingly sell them to cancel my indebtedness, but they are only paste, although an excellent imitation.”

Her companion regarded her with astonishment.

“You surely do not mean that?” he exclaimed, “for if I ever saw pure white diamonds, those which you wear are certainly genuine.”

“No, they are not,” she returned, shaking her head with a positive air.  “I am very fond of diamonds and I had some very nice ones once, but they were stolen from me just after my husband died.  I could not afford to replace them, just then, and I had these made to wear until I could do so.  They were made in Paris, where they are very clever at such work.  I hoped when my husband’s estate was settled, I could have some real stones again; but, of course, I cannot now,” she regretfully concluded.