“Alexandrine,” he said, quietly, “you know just what my course has been.  You know my lowly origin—­you know how life has cheated me of happiness.  You know how dear Margie Harrison was to me, and how I lost her.  I loved her with my whole soul—­she will be the one love of my life time.  I shall never love another woman as I loved her.  But if my name, and the position I can give my wife, will be pleasant to you, then I ask you to accept them, as some slight recompense for what I have made you suffer.  If you can be satisfied with the sincere respect and friendship I feel for you, then I offer myself to you.  You deserve my heart, but I have none to give to any one.  I have buried it so deep that it will never know a resurrection.”

She shuddered and grew pale.  To one of her passionate nature—­loving him as she did—­it was but a sorry wooing.  His love she could never have.  But if she married him, she should be always near him; sometimes he would hold her hands in his, and call her, as he did now, Alexandrine.  Her apparent struggle with herself pained him.  Perhaps he guessed something of its cause.  He put his arm around her waist.

“My child,” he said, kindly, “do you love me?  Do you indeed care for me?  Cold and indifferent as I have been?  Tell me truly, Alexandrine?”

She did tell him truly; something within urged her to let him see her heart as it was.  For a moment she put aside all her pride.

“I do love you,” she said, “God only knows how dearly!”

He looked at her with gentle, pitying eyes, but he did not touch the red lips so near his own.  He could not be a hypocrite.

“I will be good to you, Alexandrine.  God helping me, you shall never have cause for complaint.  I will make your life as happy as I can.  I will give you all that my life’s shipwreck spared me.  Will that content you?  Will you be my wife?”

Still she did not reply.

“Are you afraid to risk it?” he asked, almost sadly.

“No, I am not afraid!  I will risk everything!” she answered.

Meantime, what of Margie Harrison?  Through the dull, stormy day she had been whirled along like the wind.  The train was an express, and made few stoppages.  Margie took little note of anything which occurred.  She sat in her hard seat like one in a trance, and paid no heed to the lapse of time, until the piteous whining of Leo warned her that night was near, and the poor dog was hungry.  At the first stopping-place she purchased some bread and meat for him, but nothing for herself.  She could not have swallowed a mouthful.

Still the untiring train dashed onward.  Boston was reached at last.  She got out, stood confused and bewildered, gazing around her.  It was night, and the place was strange to her.  The cries of the porters and hackmen—­the bustle and dire confusion, struck a chill to her heart.  The crowd hurried hither and thither, each one intent on his own business, and the lamps gave out a dismal light, dimmed as they were by the hanging clouds of mist and fog.  Alone in a great city!  For the first time in her life she felt the significance of the words she had so often heard.  She had never traveled a half dozen miles before, by herself, and she felt almost as helpless as a little child.