“I not only do not care for the world,” he said impetuously, “but I hate it.  I’ve been dragged through it, and have ever found it a desert, stony place.  My heart just aches for the sweet quiet and seclusion of such a home as you could make, Millie.  As it is, I have no home.  A hollow iceberg could not be more cold and joyless than my present abode.  Neither have you a home.  It is only in stolen moments like these, liable to interruption, that we can speak of what is in our hearts;” and then, prompted by his feelings, longings, and the apparently friendless condition of the girl whose head rested so trustingly on his breast, he broached the scheme of life that had taken possession of his imagination.

At first, in her faith and innocence she scarcely understood him, but suddenly she raised her head, and looked at him with startled eyes.  “What!” she said, in trembling alarm, “no marriage?  Mr. Wentworth and Roger Atwood not present?”

“No minister could make our union more sacred than it would be to me,” he faltered, “and as soon as my obdurate parents—­”

She sprang to her feet, and exclaimed passionately, “I’d rather die ten thousand deaths than bring a blush of shame to Roger Atwood’s face.”  Then she sank into her chair in an uncontrollable outburst of grief.  He pleaded with her, but she was deaf; he tried to caress her, but although half unconscious from her agony, she repulsed him.  “Oh, oh,” she moaned, “is this the sole reward of my fidelity?”

“Millie, Millie,” he entreated, “you will kill me if you cannot control yourself.  I will do anything you say—­submit to any terms.  Oh, pity me, or I shall die.”

“Leave me,” she said faintly.

“Never,” he cried; “I’d sooner cast myself down from this height.”

By visible and painful effort she at last grew calm enough to say firmly: 

“Mr. Arnold, I do pity you.  Even at this moment I will try to do you justice.  My heart seems broken, and yet, I fear you will suffer more than I. My own womanhood would make your words the sufficient cause for our final separation, and had I not a friend in the world we could never meet again.  But I have a friend, a brother to whom I owe more than life, and whom I love better than life.  He would have made me rich if I would have let him, but I loved you too well.  Not for my hope of heaven would I make him blush for me.  I would have married you and lived in a single room in a tenement.  I would have supported you with my own hands.  The weaknesses for which you were not to blame drew my heart toward you, but you have shown a defect in your character to-night which creates an impassable gulf between us.  In view of the wrong done you by others I forgive you—­I shall pray God to forgive you—­but we have fatally misunderstood each other.  If you have any manhood at all, if you have the ordinary instincts of a gentleman, you will respect the commands of an orphan girl, and leave me, never to approach me again.”