“It was easy for me to give you daring advice then, Ralph,” she said.  “Like most school-girls, I thought that life was a great and glorious thing, and that happiness was a fruit which hung within reach of every hand.  Now I have lived for six years trying single-handed to relieve the want and suffering of the needy people with whom I come in contact, and their squalor and wretchedness have sickened me, and, what is still worse, I feel that all I can do is as a drop in the ocean, and, after all, amounts to nothing.  I know I am no longer the same reckless girl who, with the very best intention, sent you wandering through the wide world; and I thank God that it proved to be for your good, although the whole now appears quite incredible to me.  My thoughts have moved so long within the narrow circle of these mountains that they have lost their youthful elasticity, and can no more rise above them.”

Ralph detected, in the midst of her despondency, a spark of her former fire, and grew eloquent in his endeavors to persuade her that she was unjust to herself, and that there was but a wider sphere of life needed to develop all the latent powers of her rich nature.

At the dinner-table, her father again sat eying his guest with that same cold look of distrust and suspicion.  And when the meal was at an end, he rose abruptly and called his daughter into another room.  Presently Ralph heard his angry voice resounding through the house, interrupted now and then by a woman’s sobs, and a subdued, passionate pleading.  When Bertha again entered the room, her eyes were very red, and he saw that she had been weeping.  She threw a shawl over her shoulders, beckoned to him with her hand, and he arose and followed her.  She led the way silently until they reached a thick copse of birch and alder near the strand.  She dropped down upon a bench between two trees, and he took his seat at her side.

“Ralph,” began she, with a visible effort, “I hardly know what to say to you; but there is something which I must tell you—­my father wishes you to leave us at once.”

“And you, Bertha?”

“Well—­yes—­I wish it too.”

She saw the painful shock which her words gave him, and she strove hard to speak.  Her lips trembled, her eyes became suffused with tears, which grew and grew, but never fell; she could not utter a word.

“Well, Bertha,” answered he, with a little quiver in his voice, “if you, too, wish me to go, I shall not tarry.  Good-by.”

He rose quickly, and, with averted face, held out his hand to her; but as she made no motion to grasp the hand, he began distractedly to button his coat, and moved slowly away.

“Ralph.”

He turned sharply, and, before he knew it, she lay sobbing upon his breast.

“Ralph,” she murmured, while the tears almost choked her words, “I could not have you leave me thus.  It is hard enough—­it is hard enough—­”