“No, Katy, you can’t go yet till I have said what’s in my mind to say,” and laying his hand upon her shoulder he made her sit down beside him and listen while he told her the love he had borne for her long before she knew the meaning of that word as she knew it now—­of the struggle to keep that love in bounds after its indulgence was a sin, of his temptations and victories, of his sincere regret for Wilford, and of his deep respect for her grief, which made her for a time as a sister to him.  But that time had passed.  She was not his sister now, nor ever could be again.  She was Katy, dearer, more precious, more desired even than before another called her wife, and he asked her to be his, to come up there to Linwood and live with him, making the rainy days brighter, balmier, than the sunniest had ever been, and helping him in his work of caring for the poor and sick around them.

“Will Katy come?  Will she be the wife of Cousin Morris?”

There was a world of pathos and pleading in the voice which asked this question, just as there was a world of tenderness in the manner in which Morris smoothed and caressed and fondled the bowed head resting on the chair arm.  And Katy felt it all, understanding what it was to be offered such a love as Morris offered, but only comprehending in part what it would be to refuse that love.  For, alas! her blinded judgment said she must refuse it.  Had there been no sad memories springing from that grave in Greenwood, no bitter reminiscences connected with her married life—­had Wilford never heard of Morris’ love and taunted her with it so often, she might perhaps consent, for she craved the rest there would be with Morris to lean upon.  But the happiness was too great for her to accept.  It would seem too much like faithlessness to Wilford, too much as if he had been right when he charged her with preferring Morris to himself.

“It cannot be—­oh, Morris, it cannot be,” she sobbed, when he pressed her for answer.  “Don’t ask me why—­don’t ever mention it again, for I tell you it cannot be.  My answer is final; it cannot be.  I am sorry for you, so sorry.  I wish you had never loved me, for it cannot be.”

She writhed herself from the arms which tried to detain her, and rising to her feet left the room suddenly, and throwing on her wrappings, quitted the house without another word, leaving basket and umbrella behind, and never knowing she had left them, or how the rain was pouring down upon her unsheltered person until, as she entered the narrow strip of woodland, she was met by Aunt Betsy, who exclaimed at seeing her, and asked: 

“What has become of your umberell?  Your silk one, too.  It’s hopeful you haven’t lost it.  What has happened you?” and coming closer to Katy, Aunt Betsy looked searchingly in her face.  It was not so dark that she could not see the traces of recent tears, and instinctively suspecting their nature, she continued:  “Catherine, have you gin Morris the mitten?”