“Miss Hope, I—­”

“Mr. Newt, you have no right to address me in that way.”

“Miss Wayne, I have come to—­to—­”

He stopped, embarrassed, rubbing his fingers upon the palms of his hands.  She looked at him steadily.  He waited a few moments, then began again in a hurried tone: 

“Miss Wayne, we are both older than we once were; and once, I think, we were not altogether indifferent to each other.  Time has taught us many things.  I find that my heart, after foolish wanderings, is still true to its first devotion.  We can both view things more calmly, not less truly, however, than we once did.  I am upon the eve of a public career.  I have outgrown morbid emotions, and I come to ask you if you would take time to reflect whether I might not renew my addresses; for indeed I love, and can love, no other woman.”

Hope Wayne stood pale, incredulous, and confounded while Abel Newt, with some of the old fire in the eye and the old sweetness in the voice, poured out these rapid words, and advanced toward her.

“Stop, Sir,” she said, as soon as she could command herself.  “Is this all you have to say?”

“Don’t drive me to despair,” he said, suddenly, in reply, and so fiercely that Hope Wayne started.  “Listen.”  He spoke with stern command.

“I am utterly ruined.  I have no friends.  I have bad habits.  You can save me—­will you do it?”

Hope stood before him silent.  His hard black eye was fixed upon her with a kind of defying appeal for help.  Her state of mind for some days, since she had heard Mrs. Simcoe’s story, had been one of curious mental tension.  She was inspired by a sense of renunciation—­of self-sacrifice.  It seemed to her that some great work to do, something which should occupy every moment, and all her powers and thoughts, was her only hope of contentment.  What it might be, what it ought to be, she had not conceived.  Was it not offered now?  Horrible, repulsive, degrading—­yes, but was it not so much the worthier?  Here stood the man she had loved in all the prime and power of his youth, full of hope, and beauty, and vigor—­the hero that satisfied the girl’s longing—­and he was bent, gray, wan, shaking, utterly lost, except for her.  Should she restore him to that lost manhood?  Could she forgive herself if she suffered her own feelings, tastes, pride, to prevent?

While the thought whirled through her excited brain: 

“Remember,” he said, solemnly—­“remember it is the salvation of a human soul upon which you are deciding.”

There was perfect silence for some minutes.  The low, quick ticking of the clock upon the mantle was all they heard.

“I have decided,” she said, at last.

“What is it?” he asked, under his breath.

“What you knew it would be,” she answered.

“Then you refuse?” he said, in a half-threatening tone.

“I refuse!”

“Then the damnation of a soul rest upon your head forever,” he said, in a loud coarse voice, crushing his hat, and his black eyes glaring.