Marion Fay.

She, when she was left alone, threw herself at full length on the
sofa and burst into an ecstacy of tears. Trust herself to him! Yes,
indeed. She would trust herself to him entirely, only in order that
she might have the joy, for one hour, of confessing her love to him
openly, let the consequences to herself afterwards be what they
might! As to that future injury to her pride of which she had spoken
both to her father and also to her friend,--of which she had said so
much to herself in discussing this matter with her own heart--as to
that he had convinced her. It did not become her in any way to think
of herself in this matter. He certainly would be able to twist her
as he would if she could stand upon no surer rock than her fears for
her own happiness. One kiss from him would be payment for it all. But
all his love, all his sweetness, all his truth, all his eloquence
should avail nothing with her towards overcoming that spirit of
self-sacrifice by which she was dominated. Though he should extort
from her all her secret, that would be her strength. Though she
should have to tell him of her failing health,--her certainly failing
health,--though even that should be necessary, she certainly would
not be won from her purpose. It might be sweet, she thought, to make
him in all respects her friend of friends; to tell him everything; to
keep no fear, no doubt, no aspiration a secret from him. "Love you,
oh my dearest, thou very pearl of my heart, love you indeed! Oh, yes.
Do you not know that not even for an instant could I hide my love?
Are you not aware, did you not see at the moment, that when you first
knelt at my feet, my heart had flown to you without an effort on my
part to arrest it? But now, my beloved one, now we understand each
other. Now there need be no reproaches between us. Now there need be
no speaking of distrust. I am all yours,--only it is not fit, as you
know, dearest, that the poor Quaker girl should become your wife. Now
that we both understand that, why should we be sad? Why should we
mourn?" Why should she not succeed in bringing things to such a pass
as this; and if so, why should life be unhappy either to him or to
her?

Thus she was thinking of it till she had almost brought herself to a
state of bliss, when her father returned to her. "Father," she said,
getting up and embracing his arm as he stood, "it is all over."

"What is over?" asked the Quaker.

"He has been here."

"Well