e me freely;
only try me--I think I could make you happy, love. At any rate, you shall
have anything that tenderness and devotion can give you to bring peace
into your life. Vera, darling, answer me."

"Oh, I am very tired," was all she said, moaningly and wearily, passing
her hand across her aching brow like a worn-out child.

It was life or death to him. To her it was such a little matter! What
were all his words and his prayers beside that heartache that was driving
her into her grave! He could do her no good. Why could he not leave her
in peace?

And yet, at length, something of the fervour and the passion of his love
struck upon her soul and arrested her attention. There is something so
touching and so pitiful in that first boy-love that asks for nothing in
return, craves for no other reward than to be suffered to exist; that
amongst all the selfish and half-hearted passions of older and wiser men,
it must needs elicit some response of gratitude at least, if not of
answering love, in the heart of the woman who is the object of such rare
devotion.

It dawned at length upon Vera, as she listened to his fervent pleading,
and as she saw the tears that rose in poor Denis's earnest eyes, and
the traces of deep emotion on his smooth, boyish face, that here was,
perchance, the one utterly pure and noble love that had ever been laid
at her feet.

There arose a sentiment of pity in her heart, and a vague wonder as to
his grief. Did he suffer, she asked herself, as she herself suffered?

"Vera, Vera, I only ask you to be my wife. I do not ask you for your
heart; only give me your dear self. Only let me be always with you to
brighten your life and to take care of you."

How was she to resist such absolute unselfishness?

"Oh, Denis, how good you are to me!" burst from her lips. "How can I take
you at your word? Do you not know that my heart is gone from me? I have
no love to give you."

"Yes, yes, darling," he said, quickly, pressing her hand to his lips. "Do
not pain yourself by speaking of it. I have guessed it. I have always
seemed to know it. But it is hopeless, is it not? And I--I would so
gladly take you away and comfort you if I could."

And so, in the end, she half yielded to him. What else was she to do? She
gave him a sort of promise.

"If I can, it shall be as you wish," she said; "but give me till
to-morrow night. I will think of it all day, and if you will come here
again to-morrow evening, I will an