ing to ask of you," she said,--"something to request."

"What is it?" I exclaimed,--almost sharply.

"It is that you would not invite Alphonse to come here any more,--that
you would never speak of my going out with him again, but encourage his
leaving here,--and that you would give me more of your society."

"Pray, what does all this mean, Eudora?" I demanded. "Alphonse and you
have been quarrelling, I suppose."

"No, my husband."

"Then, what do you mean by such nonsense?" I asked, in an irritated
tone.

"I scarcely have courage to tell you," she cried,--"for I fear it will
make us both forever miserable."

Thoroughly aroused by this astounding avowal, I repeated, in a stern
tone and without one touch of sympathy, my demand for an explanation.
She knelt lovingly at my feet,--not in a posture submissive or
humiliating, but as if thus she could get nearer my heart,--and began,
calmly:--

"Sometimes, my husband, I have thought my feelings for you were such as
I ought to entertain for my father or an elder brother. I venerate and
admire your character; I would die for you,--oh, how willingly!--but
sometimes I fear it is not _love_ I feel for you."

She paused, and looked at me earnestly.

"How long have you felt as you now do?" I asked, with an icy calmness.

"I do not know. I cannot tell. But I have not thought of it seriously
till Alphonse came here,--and I want you to send him away."

"And do you love Alphonse?" I asked, slowly.

"Oh, God! I do not know. I cannot tell what is the matter with me.
Perhaps it is mere infatuation. Alas! I cannot tell."

"And why do you come with this to me?" I said sneeringly, devil that I
was.

"Because you are my husband,--because you are wise and strong and good,
and the only one who can advise me,--because I am in danger, and you can
save me," she cried, looking imploringly on my frigid features.

"And for that purpose you come to _me?_"

"I do, I do!" she exclaimed. At the same time she threw her arms around
me passionately, buried her face in my bosom, and wept.

There was a struggle within me,--not violent nor desperate, but calm and
cold,--while the face of that fair young creature was pressed close to
my heart by her own arms thrown clingingly around me. I did not move
the while; I did not respond to her sad embrace even by the slightest
pressure of my hand. Yet I was all the time conscious that a pure and
noble being was supplicating me for help,--a being who