imously carried.

Meanwhile, Eleanor Milbourne was walking with Mr. Brent in the soft
summer twilight on the lawn.

"You should not press me so hard," she said as they paced slowly to
and fro. "I fear I can never give you what you desire, but I cannot
tell yet. Grant me a little time."

"A little time! But think how much time you have had!" the gentleman
urged, not without reason. "You said when I went abroad that you were
not sure enough of your heart to accept me then, but that you would
give me a final answer when I returned. You had all the months of my
absence to consider what this answer should be, and when I came for
it, spending not so much as an hour in tarrying on the road, I found
that it was not ready for me--that I had yet longer to wait. Eleanor,
is this kind? is it even just?"

"It is neither," said Eleanor, turning to him with a strange
deprecation on her fair proud face. "I know that you have been
everything that is patient and generous, and I am sorry--oh I am more
than sorry--to have seemed to trifle with you; but what can I do?
Remember that when I decide, it is for my whole life. You cannot doubt
that I will hold fast to my promise when it is once given."

"I do not doubt it, and therefore I desire that promise above all
things."

"But you would not desire the letter without the spirit?" said she
eagerly. "I dare not bind myself--I _dare_ not--until I am certain of
myself."

"But, good Heavens!" said Marston Brent, who, although usually the
most quiet and dignified of human beings, was now fairly driven to
vehemence, "when do you mean to be certain of yourself? Surely you
have had time enough. Can you not love me, Eleanor?" he asked a
little wistfully. "If that is it--if that is the doubt that holds you
back--say so, and let me go. Anything is better than suspense like
this."

But Eleanor was plainly not ready to say that. She stood still for
a moment, then turned to him with a sudden light of resolve in her
eyes. "You are right," she said. "This must end. I may be weak and
foolish, but I have no right to make you suffer for my weakness and
my folly. I pledge myself to tell you to-morrow night whether or not I
can be your wife. You will give me till then, will you not? It is the
last delay I shall ask."

"I wish you would understand that you could not ask anything which I
should not be glad to grant," said he, a little sadly. "For Heaven's
sake, do not think of me as your persecutor--do