e, and we
will try to make her so happy that she will stay with us, or live here
if she chooses, and give up her wandering life. Dear Bessie, answer me.
Can you not like me a little?"

As he talked Bessie had covered her face with her hands, and he could
see the great tears dropping through her fingers.

"Don't cry, darling," he said, winding his arm around her and trying to
draw her to him. "Don't cry, but answer me; don't you like me a little?"

"Yes, a great deal, but not that way. I think you one of the noblest,
best of men, and always have thought so since I first knew you, and you
were so kind to father and me; but I cannot be your wife."

"Oh, Bessie, don't say that," Jack cried, with such bitter pain in his
voice that Bessie looked quickly up at him, and asked wonderingly:

"Do you then care so much for me?"

"Care for you!" he exclaimed. "Never man cared for or loved another
better than I love and care for you I have staked my all upon you. I
cannot give you up. Trevellian Castle will have no charm for me if you
are not its mistress. I want you there; we need you there, Flossie and
I. Ah! I had forgotten _this_," and taking a letter from his pocket he
handed it to Bessie, saying: "It is from Flossie. She knew of my errand
here and wished to send a message. I do not know what she has written,
but read it, please. She may be more successful than I have been."

Opening the letter, which was written in a bold, dashing, schoolgirl
hand, Bessie read as follows:

"Trevellian Castle, July ----.

"DEAR DARLING BESSIE:--I must call you that, though I have never
seen you, but I have heard so much of you from Sir Jack that I feel
as if I knew you, and very soon I hope to see you face to face, for
you _are_ coming here as Lady Jack, and so save me from that horrid,
pokey place on the Irish coast, where I never can be happy, never. I
do so want to stay at the castle, but Madam Propriety says it would
not be proper. I hate proper things, don't you? and I do love the
castle! Such a grand old place, with lovely views from every window.
Acres of green sward, smooth as satin, with shade trees here and
there, and banks, and borders, and beds of flowers, and from the
room I have selected as your sitting-room you can see a broad,
grassy avenue nearly a mile long, with the branches of the trees
which skirt it meeting overhead. Every day I gallop down that
avenue, w