They were sitting together by themselves in the dimly lighted parlor.  They had told each other many experiences of their past lives, very freely, as two intimate friends of different sex might do.  Clement had happened to allude to Susan, speaking very kindly and tenderly of her.  He hoped this youth to whom she was attached would make her life happy.  “You know how simple-hearted and good she is; her image will always be a pleasant one in my memory,—­second to but one other.”

Myrtle ought, according to the common rules of conversation, to have asked, What other? but she did not.  She may have looked as if she wanted to ask,—­she may have blushed or turned pale, perhaps she could not trust her voice; but whatever the reason was, she sat still, with downcast eyes.  Clement waited a reasonable time, but, finding it was of no use, began again.

“Your image is the one other,—­the only one, let me say, for all else fades in its presence,—­your image fills all my thought.  Will you trust your life and happiness with one who can offer you so little beside his love?  You know my whole heart is yours.”

Whether Myrtle said anything in reply or not, whether she acted like Coleridge’s Genevieve,—­that is, “fled to him and wept,” or suffered her feelings to betray themselves in some less startling confession, we will leave untold.  Her answer, spoken or silent, could not have been a cruel one, for in another moment Clement was pressing his lips to hers, after the manner of accepted lovers.

“Our lips have met to-day for the second time,” he said, presently.

She looked at him in wonder.  What did he mean?  The second time!  How assuredly he spoke!  She looked him calmly in the face, and awaited his explanation.

“I have a singular story to tell you.  On the morning of the 16th of June, now nearly two years ago, I was sitting in my room at Alderbank, some twenty miles down the river, when I heard a cry for help coming from the river.  I ran down to the bank, and there I saw a boy in an old boat—­”

When it came to the “boy” in the old boat, Myrtle’s cheeks flamed so that she could not bear it, and she covered her face with both her hands.  But Clement told his story calmly through to the end, sliding gently over its later incidents, for Myrtle’s heart was throbbing violently, and her breath a little catching and sighing, as when she had first lived with the new life his breath had given her.

“Why did you ask me for myself, when you could have claimed me?” she said.

“I wanted a free gift, Myrtle,” Clement answered, “and I have it.”

They sat in silence, lost in the sense of that new life which had suddenly risen on their souls.

The door-bell rang sharply.  Kitty Fagan answered its summons, and presently entered the parlor and announced that Mr. Bradshaw was in the library, and wished to see the ladies.

CHAPTER XXXIV.