“I cannot; I cannot!”

“Cannot?  Oh, Beulah, I would make you a happy wife, if it cost me my life!”

“No.  I could not be happy as your wife.  It is utterly impossible.  Mr. Lindsay, I told you long ago you could never be more than a friend.”

“And have years wrought no change in your heart?”

“Years have strengthened my esteem, my sincere friendship; but more than this all time cannot accomplish.”

“Your heart is tenacious of its idol,” he answered moodily.

“It rebels, sir, now, as formerly, at the thought of linking my destiny with that of one whom I never loved.”  Beulah spoke rapidly, her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled with displeasure.

He looked at her and sighed deeply; then threw down a letter, saying: 

“Ah, Beulah, I understood long ago why you could not love me; but I hoped years of absence would obliterate the memory that prevented my winning you.  I made unusual exertions to discover some trace of your wandering guardian; have written constantly to my former banker in Paris, to find some clew to his whereabouts.  Through him I learn that your friend was last heard of at Canton, and the supposition is that he is no longer living.  I do not wish to pain you, Beulah; but I would fain show you how frail a hope you cling to.  Believe me, dear Beulah, I am not so selfish as to rejoice at his prolonged absence.  No, no.  Love such as mine prizes the happiness of its object above all other things.  Were it in my power I would restore him to you this moment.  I had hoped you would learn to love me; but I erred in judging your nature.  Henceforth I will cast off this hope, and school myself to regard you as my friend only.  I have, at least, deserved your friendship.”

“And it is inalienably yours!” cried she very earnestly.

“In future, when toiling to discharge my duties, I may believe I have one sincere friend, who will rejoice at my success?”

“Of this you may well rest assured.  It seems a poor return, Mr. Lindsay, for all you have tendered me; but it is the most I can give, the most an honest heart will allow me to offer.  Truly, you may always claim my friendship and esteem, if it has any worth.”

“I prize it far more than your hand unaccompanied by your heart.  Henceforth we will speak of the past no more; only let me be the friend an orphan may require.  You are to live in my uncle’s house, I believe; I am very glad you have decided to do so; this is not a proper home for you now.  How do you contrive to exorcise loneliness?”

“I do not always succeed very well.  My flowers are a great resource; I don’t know how I should live without them.  My books, too, serve to occupy my attention.”  She was making a great effort to seem cheerful, but he saw that her smile was forced; and, with an assurance that he would see her again before he went to Washington, he shook hands cordially, and left her.  She tied her bouquet, and dispatched it to the sick child, with a few lines of kind remembrance; then took the letter which Mr. Lindsay had thrown on the steps, and opened it with trembling fingers.