‘Don’t tell me anything about him I shan’t like to hear.’

‘Ah;—­that is so hard to know.  I wish you would like to hear it.’

‘What can it be?’

‘I cannot tell you now.’

‘Why not?  And why did you offer?’

‘Because,—­Oh, Silverbridge.’

He certainly as yet did not understand it.  It had never occurred to him that she would know what were his father’s wishes.  Perhaps he was slow of comprehension as he urged her to tell him what this was about his father.  ’What can you tell me about him, that I should not like to hear?’

‘You do not know?  Oh, Silverbridge, I think you know.’  Then there came upon him a glimmering of the truth.  ‘You do know.’  And she stood apart looking him full in the face.

‘I do not know what you can have to tell me.’

’No;—­no.  It is not that I should tell you.  But yet it is so, Silverbridge, what did you say to me that morning when you came to me that morning in the Square?’

‘What did I say?’

‘Was I not entitled to think that you—­loved me?’ To this he had nothing to reply, but stood before her silent and frowning.  ’Think of it, Silverbridge.  Was it not so?  And because I did not at once tell you all the truth, because I did not there say that my heart was all yours, were you right to leave?’

‘You only laughed at me.’

’No;—­no; no; I never laughed at you.  How could I laugh when you were all the world to me?  Ask Frank; he knew.  Ask Miss Cass;—­she knew.  And can you say that you did not know; you, you, yourself?  Can any girl suppose that such words as these are to mean nothing when they have been spoken?  You knew I loved you.’

‘No;—­no.’

’You must have known it.  I will never believe but that you knew it.  Why should your father be so sure of it?’

‘He never was sure of it.’

’Yes, Silverbridge, yes.  There is not one in the house who does not see that he treats me as though he expected me to be his son’s wife.  Do you not know that he wishes it?’ He fain would not have answered this; but she paused for his answer and then repeated her question.  ‘Do you not know that he wishes it?’

‘I think he does,’ said Silverbridge; ‘but it can never be so.’

’Oh, Silverbridge;—­oh my loved one.  Do not say that to me!  Do not kill me at once!’ Now she placed her hands one on each arm as she stood opposite to him and looked up into his face.  ’You said that you loved me once.  Why do you desert me now?  Have you a right to treat me like that;—­when I tell you that you have all my heart?’ The tears were now streaming down her face, and they were not counterfeit tears.

‘You know,’ he said, submitting to her hands, but not lifting his arm to embrace her.

‘What do I know?’

‘That I have given all I have to another.’  As he said this he looked away sternly, over her shoulder, to the distance.