“No.  To whom?” he asked hoarsely, his face pale as death, and lips quivering so that he could scarcely speak.

“To Mr. Travilla.  It has been only for a few weeks, though we have loved each other for years.  Oh, Harold, Harold, do not look so wretched! you break my heart, for I love you as a very dear brother.”

He turned away with a groan, and without another word hastened back to the house, while Elsie, covering her face with her hands, shed some very bitter tears.

Heart-broken, stunned, feeling as if every good thing in life had suddenly slipped from his grasp, Harold sought his room, mechanically gathered up his few effects, packed them into his valise, then sat down by the open window and leant his head upon his hand.

He couldn’t think, he could only feel that all was lost, and that he must go away at once, if he would not have everybody know it, and make the idol of his heart miserable with the sight of his wretchedness.

Why had he not known of her engagement?  Why had no one told him?  Why had he been such a fool as to suppose he could win so great a prize?  He was not worthy of her.  How plainly he saw it now, how sorely repented of the conceit that had led him on to the avowal of his passion.

He had a vague recollection that a boat was to pass that afternoon.  He would take passage in that, and he hoped Mr. Dinsmore’s return might be delayed till he was gone.  He would away without another word to Elsie; she should not be disturbed by any further unmanly manifestation of his bitter grief and despair.

The hour of the passing of the boat drew near, and valise in hand, he left his room and passed down the stairs.  But Elsie was coming in from the lawn, and they met in the lower hall.

“Harold,” she cried, “you are not going?  You must not leave us so suddenly.”

“I must,” he said in icy tones, the stony eyes gazing into vacancy; “all places are alike to me now, and I cannot stay here to trouble you and Horace with the sight of a wretchedness I cannot hide.”

Trembling so that she could scarcely stand, Elsie leaned against the wall for support, the hot tears coursing down her cheeks.  “Oh, Harold!” she sobbed, “what an unhappy creature I am to have been the cause of such sorrow to you!  Oh why should you ever have thought of me so?”

Dropping his valise, his whole manner changing, he turned to her with passionate vehemence.  “Because I couldn’t help it!  Even as a boy I gave up my whole heart to you, and I cannot call it back.  Oh, Elsie, why did I ever see you?” and he seized both her hands in a grasp that almost forced a cry of pain from her white, quivering lips.  “Life is worthless without you.  I’d rather die knowing that you loved me than live to see you in the possession of another.”

“Harold, Harold, a sister’s love I can, I do give you; and can you not be content with that?”

“A sister’s love!” he repeated scornfully.  “Offer a cup with a drop of water in it, to a man perishing, dying with thirst.  Yes, I’m going away, I care not whither; all places are alike to him who has lost all interest in life.”