to say pleadingly:--

"Please, Baron Ned, it cannot be."

Tears were trickling down her cheeks, and I could see that she was in
great trouble.

"I do not ask you to come to me now," I said, "but you may take a long
time, if you wish--a day, or two, or even three, if you insist. But
Betty, I am not to be refused, and you may as well understand now and for
all that you are to be my wife. But tell me, Betty, what is your reason
for denying me at this time?"

She dried her eyes, sat erect, and answered in a voice full of tears:
"Well, you are so far above me that the time might come when you would
be ashamed of me."

"Nothing of the sort, Betty. Drop that argument at once. You know you do
not mean it. You are not speaking the exact truth. There is no sweetness,
no beauty, like yours."

"Do you really mean it, Baron Ned?" she answered, smiling up to me.

"Yes, yes, every word and a thousand more," I answered.

"But I am so unworthy," she said.

"You're pretending, Betty," I answered, and I argued so well that she
abandoned her position.

"Now, give me another reason, Betty," I demanded, feeling encouraged by
the success of my first bout. To this she answered with great hesitancy,
murmuring her words almost inaudibly:--

"I could not leave father."

That was the reason I had feared, and when I drew away from her, showing
my great disappointment in my face, she took one of my hands in both of
hers, saying:--

"Not that I should not be happy to go with you anywhere, but you see I am
all the world to father. He would die without me."

Here, of course, I might expect tears, nor was I disappointed. I, too,
found the tears coming to my eyes, for her grief touched me keenly, and
her love for her father showed me even more plainly than I had ever
before known the unselfish tenderness of the girl I so longed to possess.
It was hard for me to speak against this argument of hers; for it was
like finding fault with the best part of her, so for a little time we
were silent. After a minute or two, she glanced up to me and, seeing my
great trouble, murmured brokenly:--

"If you think I am worth waiting for, and if you will wait till father is
gone, I will go with you, and your smallest and greatest wish alike shall
be mine. And when you become ashamed of me, I'll--"

"I'll not wait, Betty," I answered, ignoring the latter half of her
remark. "I have a far better plan. I am going to France, and you and
your father shall