“Then give up your pride for her, if you love her,” said Abigail, sharply.

“My pride!”

“Yes, your pride.  You have given away everything else, but how dare you think yourself generous when you have kept the thing that is dearest of all?  You generous—­you!  Talk of Simon Basset!  You are a miser of a false trait in your own character.  You are a worse miser than he, unless you give it up.  What are you, that you should say, ’I will go through life, and I will give, and not take?’ What are you, that you should think yourself better than all around you—­that you should be towards your fellow-creatures as a god, conferring everything, receiving nothing?  If you love my daughter, prove it.  Take what she has to give you, and give her, what is worth more than money, if you had the riches of Croesus, the pride of your heart.”

Jerome stood before her, looking at her.  Then, without a word, he went across the room to a window, and stood there, his back towards her, his face towards the moonlight night outside.

“Is it pride or principle?” he said, hoarsely, without turning his head.

“Pride.”

Jerome stood silently at the window.  Abigail watched him, her brows contracted, her fingers twitching; there were red spots on her cheeks.  This had cost her dearly.  She, too, had given up her pride for love of Lucina.

Jerome, with a sudden motion of his shoulders, as if he flung off a burden, left the window and crossed the room.  He was very pale, but his eyes were shining.  He towered over Mrs. Merritt with his splendid height, and she was woman enough, even then, to note how handsome he was.  “Will you give me Lucina for my wife?” said he.

Tears sprang to Abigail’s eyes, her little face quivered.  She took Jerome’s hand, pressed it, murmured something, and went out.  Jerome understood that she had gone to call Lucina.

It was not long before he heard Lucina’s step on the stairs, and the rustle of her skirts.  Then there was a suspensive silence, as if she hesitated at the door; then the latch was lifted and she came in.

Lucina, in a straight hanging gown of blue silk, stood still near the door, looking at Jerome with a wonderful expression of love and modest shrinking and trust and fear, and a gentle dignity and graciousness withal, which only a maiden’s face can compass.  Lucina did not blush nor tremble, though her steady poise seemed rather due to the repression of tremors than actual calm of spirit.  Though no color came into Lucina’s smooth, pale curves of cheek, and though her little hands were clasped before her, like hands of marble, her blue eyes were dilated, and pulses beat hard in her delicate throat and temples.

Jerome, on his part, was for a minute unable to speak or approach her.  An awe of her, as of an angel, was over him, now that for the first time the certainty of possession was in his heart.  It often happens that one receiving for the first time a great and long-desired blessing, can feel, for the moment, not joy and triumph so much as awe and fear at its sudden glory of fairness in contact with his unworthiness.