t be
his wife, simply because she did not love him as he ought to be loved.

"It is nothing personal," she said, working nervously at the heavy
fringe of her shawl. "I respect you more than any man I ever knew, but
one, and had I met you years ago before--before----"

"I understand you," Thornton said, coming to her aid. "You have tried
to love me, but cannot, because your affections are given to another."

Anna bowed her head in silence. Then after a moment she continued:

"You must forgive me, Mr. Hastings, for not telling you this at once.
I did not know then but I could love you--at least I meant to try, for
you see, this other one----"

The fingers got terribly tangled in the fringe as Anna gasped for
breath, and went on:

"He does not know, and never will; that is, he never cared for me, nor
guessed how foolish I was to give him my love unsought."

"Then it is not Arthur Leighton, and that is the reason you refused
him, too?" Mr. Hastings said, involuntarily, and Anna looked quickly
up, her cheeks growing paler than they were before, as she replied:

"I don't know what you mean. I never refused Mr. Leighton--never."

"You never refused Mr. Leighton?" Thornton exclaimed, forgetting all
discretion in his surprise at this flat contradiction. "I have
Arthur's word for it, written to me last June, while Mrs. Meredith was
there, I think."

"He surely could not have meant it, because it never occurred. Once, I
was foolish enough to think he was going to, but he did not. There is
some great mistake," Anna found strength to say, and then she lay back
in her easy-chair panting for breath, her brain all in a whirl as she
thought of the possibility that she was once so near the greatest
happiness she had ever desired, and which was now lost to her forever.

He brought her smelling salts, he gave her ice-water to drink, and
then, kneeling beside her, he fanned her gently, while he said: "There
surely is a mistake, and, I fear, a great wrong, too, somewhere. Were
all your servants trusty? Was there no one who would withhold a letter
if he had written? Were you always at home when he called?" Thornton
questioned her rapidly, for there was a suspicion in his mind as to
the real culprit; but he would not hint it to Anna unless she
suggested it herself. And this she was not likely to do. Mrs. Meredith
had been too kind to her during the past summer, and especially during
her illness, to allow of such a thought concernin