rcy ought to be enough to keep me up: but
one's weakness may be excused for clinging to such slight floating
straws of comfort."

Valencia paused, startled, and yet affected. How she had played with
this deep pure heart! And yet, was it pure? Did he wish, by exciting her
pity, to trick her into giving him what he might choose to consider a
token of affection?

And she answered coldly enough--

"I should be sorry, after what you have just said, to chance hurting you
by refusing. I put it to your own good feeling--have you not asked
somewhat too much?"

"Certainly too much, madam, in any common case," said he, quite unmoved.
"Certainly too much, if I asked you for it, as I do not, as the token of
an affection which I know well you do not, cannot feel. But--take my
words as they stand--were you to--It would be returned if I die, in a
few weeks; and returned still sooner if I live. And, madam," said he
lowering his voice, "I vow to you, before Him who sees us both, that, as
far as I am concerned, no human being shall ever know of the fact."

Frank had at last touched the wrong chord.

"What, Mr. Headley? Can you think that I am to have secrets in common
with you, or with any other man? No, sir! If I granted your request, I
should avow it as openly as I shall refuse it."

And she turned sharply toward the door.

Frank Headley was naturally a shy man: but extreme need sometimes
bestows on shyness a miraculous readiness--(else why, in the long run,
do the shy men win the best wives? which is a fact, and may be proved by
statistics, at least as well as anything else can) so he quietly stepped
to Valencia's side, and said in a low voice--

"You cannot avow the refusal half as proudly as I shall avow the
request, if you will but wait till your sister's return. Both are
unnecessary, I think: but it will only be an honour to me to confess,
that, poor curate as I am--"

"Hush!" and Valencia walked quietly up to the table, and began turning
over the leaves of a book, to gain time for her softened heart and
puzzled brain.

In five minutes Frank was beside her again. The book was Tennyson's
"Princess." She had wandered--who can tell why?--to that last exquisite
scene, which all know; and as Valencia read, Frank quietly laid a finger
on the book, and arrested her eyes at last--

"If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream.
Stoop down, and seem to kiss me ere I die!"

Valencia shut the book up hurriedly and angril