his daughter into another room. Presently Ralph
heard his angry voice resounding through the house, interrupted now and
then by a woman's sobs, and a subdued, passionate pleading. When Bertha
again entered the room, her eyes were very red, and he saw that she had
been weeping. She threw a shawl over her shoulders, beckoned to him with
her hand, and he arose and followed her. She led the way silently until
they reached a thick copse of birch and alder near the strand. She
dropped down upon a bench between two trees, and he took his seat at her
side.

"Ralph," began she, with a visible effort, "I hardly know what to say to
you; but there is something which I must tell you--my father wishes you
to leave us at once."

"And _you_, Bertha?"

"Well--yes--I wish it too."

She saw the painful shock which her words gave him, and she strove hard
to speak. Her lips trembled, her eyes became suffused with tears, which
grew and grew, but never fell; she could not utter a word.

"Well, Bertha," answered he, with a little quiver in his voice, "if you,
too, wish me to go, I shall not tarry. Good-by."

He rose quickly, and, with averted face, held out his hand to her; but
as she made no motion to grasp the hand, he began distractedly to button
his coat, and moved slowly away.

"Ralph."

He turned sharply, and, before he knew it, she lay sobbing upon his
breast.

"Ralph," she murmured, while the tears almost choked her words, "I could
not have you leave me thus. It is hard enough--it is hard enough--"

"What is hard, beloved?"

She raised her head abruptly, and turned upon him a gaze full of hope
and doubt, and sweet perplexity.

"Ah, no, you do not love me," she whispered, sadly.

"Why should I come to seek you, after these many years, dearest, if I
did not wish to make you my wife before God and men? Why should I--I."

"Ah, yes, I know," she interrupted him with a fresh fit of weeping, "you
are too good and honest to wish to throw me away, now when you have seen
how my soul has hungered for the sight of you these many years, how even
now I cling to you with a despairing clutch. But you can not disguise
yourself, Ralph, and I saw from the first moment that you loved me no
more."

"Do not be such an unreasonable child," he remonstrated, feebly. "I do
not love you with the wild, irrational passion of former years; but I
have the tenderest regard for you, and my heart warms at the sight of
your sweet face, and I shall d