f his eyes, I see that he has been away in heaven with
Barbara. He does not speak as I come near; only he opens his arms
joyfully, and yet a little diffidently, too, and I fly to then.

"Roger!" I cry, passionately, with a greedy yearning for human love
here--at this very spot, where so much of the love of my life lies in
death's austere silence at my feet--"love me a little--_ever so little_!
I know I am not very lovable, but you once liked me, did not you?--not
nearly so much as I thought, I know, but still _a little_!"

"_A little!_"

"I am going to begin all over again!" I go on, eagerly, speaking very
quickly, with my arms clasped about his neck, "quite all over again;
indeed I am! I shall be so different that you will not know me for the
same person, and if--if--" (beginning to falter and stumble)--"if you
still go on liking _her_ best, and thinking her prettier and pleasanter
to talk to--well, you cannot help it, it will not be your fault--and
I--I--will try not to mind!"

He has taken my hands from about his neck, and is holding them warmly,
steadfastly clasped in his own.

"Child! child!" he cries, "shall I _never_ undeceive you? are you still
harping on that old worn-out string?"

"_Is_ it worn out?" I ask, anxiously, staring up with my wet eyes
through the deep twilight into his. "Yes, yes!" (going on quickly and
impulsively), "if you say so, I will believe it--without another word I
will believe it, but--" (with a sudden fall from my high tone, and lapse
into curiosity)--"you know you must have liked her a good deal once--you
know you were engaged to her."

"_Engaged to her?_"

"Well, _were not_ you?"

"I never was engaged to any one in my life," he answers with solemn
asseveration; "odd as it may seem, I never in my life had asked any
woman to marry me until I asked you. I had known Zephine from a child;
her father was the best and kindest friend ever any man had. When he was
dying, he was uneasy in his mind about her, as she was not left well
off, and I promised to do what I could for her--one does not lightly
break such a promise, does one? I was fond of her--I would do her any
good turn I could, for old sake's sake, but _marry_ her--be _engaged_ to
her!--"

He pauses expressively.

"Thank God! thank God!" cry I, sobbing hysterically; "it has all come
right, then--Roger!--Roger!"--(burying my tear-stained face in his
breast)--"I will tell you _now_--perhaps I shall never feel so brave
again