He did not come near her to take her in his arms and comfort her as before.  A gulf had opened between them which he felt that he could not pass, but he spoke to her very gently and compassionately.

“Do not grieve so bitterly, dear,” he said.  “Do not accuse yourself so unjustly.  You have done no wrong to me, or to any human being.  You have done nothing but good to me, and to every human being in your reach.  To me you have been more than tongue can tell—­my first friend, my muse, my angel, my inspiration to all that is best, greatest, highest in human life—­the goal of all my earthly, all my heavenly aspirations.  That I should love you with a pure, single, ardent passion of enthusiasm was natural, was inevitable.  But that you, dear, should mistake your feelings toward me, mistake sisterly affection, womanly sympathy, intellectual appreciation, for that living fire of eternal love which only should unite man and woman, was natural, too, though most unfortunate.  I am not fair to look upon, Cora.  I have no form, no comeliness, that any one should—­”

He was suddenly interrupted by the girl, who sprang from her seat and sank at his feet, clasped his knees, and dropped her head upon his hands in a tempest of sobs and tears, crying: 

“Oh, Rule!  I never did deserve your love!  I never was worthy of you!  And I long have known it.  But I do love you!  I do love you!  Oh, give me time and opportunity to prove it!” she pleaded, with many tears, saying the same words over and over again, or words with the same meaning.

He laid both his large hands softly on her bowed head and held them there with a soothing, quieting, mesmeric touch, until she had sobbed, and cried, and talked herself into silence, and then he said: 

“No, Cora!  No, dear!  You are good and true to the depths of your soul; but you deceive yourself.  You do not love me.  It is not your fault.  You cannot do so!  You pity, you esteem, you appreciate; and you mistake these sentiments as you mistook sisterly affection for such love as only should sanctify the union of man and woman.”

“But I will, Rule.  I will love you even so!  Give me time!  A little time!  I am your own,” she pleaded.

“No, dear, no.  I am sure that you would do your best, at any cost to yourself.  You would consecrate your life to one whom yet you do not love, because you cannot love.  But the sacrifice is too great, dear—­a sacrifice which no woman should ever make for any cause, which no man should ever accept under any circumstances.  You must not immolate yourself on my unworthy shrine, Cora.”

“Oh, Rule!  What do you mean?  You frighten me!  What do you intend to do?” exclaimed Cora, with a new fear in her heart.

“I will tell you later, dear, when we are both quieter.  And, Cora, promise me one thing—­for your own sake, dear.”

“I will promise you anything you wish, Rule.  And be glad to do so.  Glad to do anything that will please you,” she earnestly assured him.