The passionate eloquence of Maxwell might have melted a heart less firm than that of Emily Dumont.  As it was, the cold expression of contempt left her features, and, if not disposed to listen with favor to his suit, she was softened into pity for his assumed misery.  Under any other circumstances, the lie he had a moment before uttered would have forever condemned him in her sight.  But her charitable disposition compelled her to believe that it was the last resort of a mind on the verge of despair.

“Mr. Maxwell,” said she, “I am deeply grieved that you should have suffered any unhappiness on my account.”

“I will bless you for even those words,” returned Maxwell, hastily, feeling that he had gained the first point.

“But I do not intend to encourage your suit,” promptly returned the lady.

“Be not again unkind!  Veil not that heavenly sympathy in the coldness of indifference again!”

“I wish not to be harsh, or unkind.  You have before given me an index of your sentiments, and I have endeavored, by all courteous means, to discountenance them.”

“Yet I have always found something upon which to base a flickering hope.”

“If you have, I regret it all the more.”

“Do not say so!  Changed as has been your demeanor towards me, I have dared to fan the flame in my heart, till now it is a raging fire, and beyond my control.”

“I cannot give my hand where my heart is uninterested,” replied the lady, feelingly.  “I love you not.  I am candid, and plain, and I trust this unequivocal declaration will forever terminate any hope you have cherished in relation to this matter.  Painful as I now feel it must be for you to hear, and painful as it is to me, on that account, to declare it, I repeat—­I can never reciprocate the affection you profess.  And now let this interview terminate.  It is too painful to be prolonged;”—­and she again moved towards the door.

“Do not leave me to despair!” pleaded Maxwell, earnestly, as he followed her toward the door.  “At least, bid me wait, bid me prove myself worthy,—­anything, but do not forever extinguish the little star I have permitted to blaze in the firmament of my heart—­the star I have dared to worship.  Do not veil me in utter darkness!”

“I can offer no hope—­not the slightest, even to rid myself of an annoyance,” replied Miss Dumont, with the return of some portion of her former dignity; for the perseverance of the attorney perplexed and troubled her exceedingly.

“You know not to what a fate you doom me,” said Maxwell, heedless of the lady’s rebuke.

“There is no remedy;” and Miss Dumont grasped the door-knob.

“There is a remedy.  Bid me wait a month, a year, any time, till you examine more closely your own heart.  Give me any respite from hopeless misery.”

“You have my answer; and now I trust to your honor as a gentleman to save me from further annoyance,” said Miss Dumont, with spirit, for her patience was fast ebbing out.