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THERE was not a finer croquet lawn in the neighborhood
than that at Leighton Place, nor one with
which so much pains had been taken. It was in
shape, a long oval, bordered with low box, which prevented
the balls from rolling off the limits, and surrounded entirely
with a broad gravel walk, shaded by tall maples and evergreens,
with rustic chairs and seats beneath, and here and
there statuettes, and urns filled with luxuriant vines, and the
shrubs which thrive best in the shade. At a little distance,
the musical waters of a fountain were heard, as they fell into
the basin, where golden fish were playing, while patches of
bright flowers dotting the turf heightened the general effect,
and made it one of the most delightful of resorts. Edna had
almost screamed aloud, when, after breakfast was over, Roy
took her there with his mother, who, though she never played,
enjoyed nothing better than sitting in her favorite chair, and
listening to the click of the balls, and the merry shouts which
followed a lucky hit.

“Suppose, Miss Overton, that you and Roy try a game
while I rest,” she said to Edna, while Roy rejoined:

“Yes, do; then I can judge of your skill, and know
whether to chose you first this afternoon. Miss Somerton
and I are to be captains, I believe.”

Edna had frequently played at Rocky Point; sometimes
with Maude, sometimes with Ruth Gardner, and sometimes
with Uncle Phil for an opponent, and except when
playing against the latter, was generally beaten, so she took
the mallet Roy brought to her with some hesitation, declaring
her inability to interest a skilful player, much less to beat.

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“Let me teach you then,” Roy said. “You can learn a
great deal in an hour.”

To this Edna readily assented, and the game began with
Roy as teacher. But Edna soon found that the uneven
ground at Uncle Phil's, where the balls hid themselves in all
sorts of holes and depressions, was a very different thing from
the closely-shaven lawn which had been rolled and pounded
until it was nearly as smooth as a carpeted floor. She could
play here, and was astonished at her own success, and struck
so boldly and surely, that Roy soon gave up the task of teaching
her, and began to look after his own interests. She was
such a little creature, and he so tall and big, that he almost
felt as if playing with his daughter, though never did a father
watch the motions of his child with just the same feelings
with which Roy watched Edna as she moved from point to
point, now showing her dimpled hands, and now poising her
little boot upon her ball preparatory to croqueting it away.
She was very lithe, very graceful, and very modest withal,
and she beat Roy twice out of five games, and when at last
they were through, and Roy led her to his mother, he said to
her, laughingly:

“Remember you are engaged to me for the first game.”

He was extremely kind and gentle, and though Edna had
known him personally for only twenty-four hours, she had
seen enough to understand just how thoroughly good and
noble he was; how different from Charlie, who, had he lived,
could hardly have satisfied her now. But Charlie was dead,
and she went from the croquet ground to his grave, with his
mother, and laid a cluster of flowers upon the sod which covered
him, and felt like a guilty hypocrite when Mrs. Churchill
pressed her hand and thanked her “for remembering my
poor boy.”

“I would like flowers put here every day,” she said; “but
my eyesight is so bad that I cannot see, while Roy's hands

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are not skilful in fashioning bouquets, and we have had no
young lady staying here permanently until now.”

“Charlie shall have flowers so long as they last,” Edna replied
with a trembling voice, while into her face there came
a look of pain something like what it had worn on that
dreadful night in Iona.

She had called him “Charlie,” and the old familiar name
carried her back to the Seminary days, when, aside from
Aunt Jerry, she had not known what sorrow was,—and she
was uncertain how Mrs. Churchill would take it. There was
something very sad in the tone of her voice as she uttered
the name, Charlie,—pitiful, Mrs. Churchill thought; and she
deepened her grasp on Edna's hand and said, “Call him
Charlie always when speaking of him to me. It makes it
seem as if you had known him, and I can talk more freely to
you than to a stranger. He was my baby, my poor boy; full
of faults, but always loving and kind to his mother. Oh!
Charlie, my darling. I wish I had him back. I wish he had
not done so.”

The tears were pouring over the poor woman's face, and
Edna's kept company with them. She knew what the
mother wished he had not done, and knew that but for her
he would not have done it, and she felt for a few moments
as if she were really guilty of Charlie's death; and could she
then have restored him to his mother by going herself back
to the house by the graveyard, and taking up her lonely life
as it had been before she knew Charlie Churchill, she would
have done so. But there was no going back when once
death had entered in; and all she now could do was to comfort
and love the helpless woman who clung to her so confidingly,
and who seemed so much afraid of overtaxing or wearying
her out.

“You have always been in school, I hear,” she said, “after
they had returned to the house, and Edna had read aloud to

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her awhile. “Teaching must be accompanied with more
excitement than sitting here and amusing me, so I shall not
tax you much at first, lest you get tired of me. Go, now,
and enjoy yourself where you like. Perhaps Roy will take
you to drive. I'll ask him; I hear his step now. Roy,
come here, please.”

And before Edna, who did not fancy being thrust upon
Roy whether he would have her or not, could interfere, Mrs.
Churchill had asked her son why he did not take Miss Overton
for a drive, and he had expressed himself as delighted to
do so. They were not gone long, for Roy had some matters
to attend to before dinner, which was that day to be served
at two, but during a tête-à-tête of an hour a young man and
woman can learn a great deal of each other, and Roy's verdict
with regard to Miss Overton, as he handed her out of
his phaeton, was “A very bright, fascinating girl, with something
about her which interests me strangely;” while Edna
would not allow herself to put into words what she thought
of him. He was something, as she had judged him to be
from his letters, though better, she thought, and, as many a
person had done before her, she wondered that he had lived
to the age of thirty without being married. She did not now
believe implicitly in his eventually making Miss Burton his
wife. He could not be happy with her, she thought,—they
were so dissimilar; and she unconsciously found herself extracting
comfort from that fact, though she ascribed her motive
wholly to the friendly interest she felt in Roy, and as she
dressed herself for dinner, she warbled a part of an old love
tune she had not sung since the days when Charlie Churchill
used to stop by the Seminary gate to listen to her singing.

“I am nothing but a hired companion, a `school-marm,'
as that prig of a Jim Gardner said of me when he first came
home from Germany, and of course these grand people from
Oakwood have a similar opinion of me. I saw it in that

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Miss Shawe's eyes, and so it is not much matter how I dress.
Still I want to look as well as I can,” she said, as she stood
before the glass arranging her hair and wondering what she
should wear. “Maude says there is everything in one's looks
when playing croquet,” she continued, “and perhaps she is
right. I'll wear my white pique, with the little blue jacket.”

She could not have chosen a more becoming costume, for
the jacket was of that peculiar shade of blue which set off
her fair complexion to the best advantage, and made her so
pretty that Mrs. Churchill, blind as she was, remarked upon
her dress when she came in to dinner, while Roy said she
was like a bit of blue sky in June.

“You remember your engagement to play with me, of
course,” he continued; and when Edna suggested that she
might be a detriment rather than a help to his side, he replied,
“I want the best-looking ones at any rate, so that I
can boast of beauty if not of skill. You and Miss Burton
will go nicely together.”

Edna did not relish her dinner quite as well after that
speech, which showed that Roy claimed Miss Burton as
something which by right belonged to him, and much as she
despised herself for it, she knew, that, inwardly, she had a
feeling of relief when the party from Oakwood arrived, and
reported Georgie as too sick to come with them. Roy said
he was very sorry, and looked as if he meant it, and asked
some questions about her as he led the way to the lawn
where everything was ready. Maude, who was resplendent
in white muslin, scarlet sash, and tall gaiters, seized at once
upon Edna, and, drawing her aside, whispered to her of her
happiness.

“He told me of his love for you, too, and I did not like
him one bit the less. He couldn't help loving you, of course,
when he saw you so helpless and alone. He is a splendid
fellow, isn't he? Most as good-looking as Roy, and he is

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going to quit tobacco, and fit my room all up with blue, and
we are to be married sometime next year if he is prosperous,
and I won't have to teach the hot, sweating children any
more. Oh, I am so happy. There he comes now. Hasn't
he such a good face?”

And Maude beamed all over with delight as Jack came
up and joined them, his eyes kindling, and growing very
soft and tender, as Edna offered him her congratulations,
and told him how glad she was.

“I knew you would be,” he said. “Knew Maude would
suit you better than any one else; and Edna, please remember
that our home is yours also whenever you choose to
make it so. Maude and I agreed upon that this morning.”

They had reached the lawn by this time, and the ladies
from New York were handling the mallets daintily, and
decrying their own skill, and saying the side which claimed
them was sure to lose.

“Then I run no risk,” Roy said, laughingly; “and
choose Miss Overton.”

He had been drawing cuts with Maude to see which
would have the first choice, and the lot came to him.

“Miss Overton,” he called again, and Edna came forward,
noticing, as she did so, the glances of surprise and
dissatisfaction exchanged between the city girls, who, though
very civil to her, did not attempt to conceal that they knew
her only as a hired companion, whose rightful place was at
Mrs. Churchill's side, rather than in the ranks with themselves
as Roy Leighton's first choice.

Maude wanted to choose Jack first, but modesty forbade,
and then, too, he sometimes made awful hits, and had a way
of pursuing a ball, no matter where it was or into what
enemy's quarter it took him. Jack was out of the question,
and so she chose Uncle Burton, and Roy took Jack himself.
Two of the New York girls came next, and the New York

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beau, and then the number was complete, and Miss Agatha
Shawe and Beatrice Bradley retired in dignified silence, and
taking seats by Mrs. Churchill, prepared to criticise the
game. It was Roy's first play, and he drove his ball through
the third wicket and in the vicinity of the fourth, while
Maude, who usually struck so surely, started badly, and
only made her second arch.

Miss Agatha, who was reporting to Mrs. Churchill, and
whose sympathies were on Maude's side, said a little sarcastically:

“She is in no danger from her opponent, I fancy; Miss
Overton plays next.”

Edna heard the remark, and while it sent the blood to
her face, it seemed to lend steadiness to her hand and coolness
to her judgment, and her first stroke was through both
of the wickets, while a shout went up from Roy and Jack,
and was echoed by Maude, who, knowing that the city ladies
looked upon Edna and herself as people belonging to the
working class, rejoiced at her friend's success even though
it should tell against her side. And it did tell sadly, for
remembering Roy's teaching in the morning, Edna used her
opponent's ball so skilfully as to reach the stake before
stopping at all. But there she missed her stroke, and came
back to her place by Roy, who commended her highly,
while Miss Agatha began to change her tactics, and
“guessed Miss Overton had played before.”

Poor Mr. Burton was awkwardness itself. With the
dread of talking to Roy before him, he hardly saw his ball,
and made a “booby” of himself at once, and said to Maude,
as he knocked his unlucky ball back to its place: “I told
you so. I can't play any more than an elephant.”

But he was good at long shots, as Maude had said, and
he did some long shooting before he was through, for the
game was a hotly-contested one. Maude recovered her

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skill with her second round, while Edna lost a little by being
so constantly pursued by the city girl, who played the best,
and who shared Miss Agatha's contempt for the plebeian.
But Roy beat; and then they chose again, and Maude took
Edna first, and Edna's side was always the winning one,
until Miss Agatha suggested that “Miss Overton should
play on both sides, and see what the result would be.”

But Roy said Miss Overton was too tired to do that;
besides, it was nearly time for refreshments; the servants
were arranging the tables now; and he suggested that, for a
time, they should rest, and go wherever they pleased. That
broke up the group, which divided up in twos and threes,
Maude walking away with Jack, Edna returning to Mrs.
Churchill's side, and the city people making a little knot by
themselves, under one of the tall shade-trees.

Mr. Burton was thus left-alone; seeing which, Roy asked
him to go and look at a fast horse which he had recently
purchased, and which was accounted by connoisseurs of
horse-flesh a very fine animal. And so it came about that,
after the horse had been duly examined and admired, Roy
found himself alone with Mr. Burton in a little rustic arbor,
apart from all the rest of his guests, and where he could not
well be seen, as the arbor was hidden from the greater part
of the grounds by the evergreens which grew so thickly
around it.

Now was Mr. Burton's opportunity. He had planned
admirably to get Roy into this retired situation, and he gave
himself considerable credit for his management. But how
to begin was the trouble, and he grew very red in the face,
and felt so warm and uncomfortable that the perspiration
began to show itself in little drops about his forehead and
mouth. And still he could not think of a word to say, until
he saw by Roy's manner that he was meditating a return to
the house. Then, screwing up his courage to the highest

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pitch, and holding on to the seat with both his hands, as it
what he was about to do required physical as well as mental
effort, he made a beginning.

“I say, Roy,” he began, “I wonder you don't get married.
You've everything with which to make a wife happy,
and surely there are scores of girls who would jump at the
chance of coming here to live.”

Roy gave a little tired yawn, and answered indifferently:

“Perhaps so, but you see I don't exactly know where
they are, and I should not care to be refused,” and as he
said it, visions of blue jackets, and white skirts, and little
boots, mixed themselves together in his brain in a confused
kind of way, and as was quite natural, a thought of Georgie,
too, crossed his mind. He always thought of her when
matrimony was suggested to him, but he had no suspicion
that his companion was drifting that way. Poor Mr. Burton,
who felt as if every particle of blood in his veins was rushing
to his face and gathering around the roots of his hair,
fidgeted from side to side, got up and looked behind him,
spit several times, then sat down again, and said:

“You are too modest, boy,—too modest. I know of
forty, I'll bet, that would not say no.”

“Name one, please,” Roy said, shutting his eyes indolently,
and leaning against the trunk of a tree.

Mr. Burton hesitated a moment, and then replied:

“Well, there's Agatha Shawe for one, and Bell Bradley
for another, and—and—(by Jove, I may as well blurt it out
and done with it,) and Georgie, my wife's niece. (I'm in
for it now, confound it.) She's a splendid girl; don't lack
for offers; had one this morning from that young Bigelow
from Boston.”

“Ah, did she? and will she accept?” Roy asked, beginning
for the first time to feel some interest in the conversation.

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“Don't know. You can't calculate on a woman, but it's
my opinion she won't. Roy, old boy, I'll be cussed if I
mayn't as well say it; I do believe the girl likes you, and I'd
rather have you for a son-in-law than any chap I know,
and I'll be hanged if I don't think you've given her cause
to suppose you meant something by hangin' off and on as
you have this last year or two. Anyhow, people think so,
and talk about it, and suppose you to be engaged, and that
hurts a girl if it never comes to anything, and, well,—well,—
blast it all,—as Georgie's father, so called, and as,—to be
sure,—as Mrs. Burton's husband,—I feel called upon,—
yes,—very much as the head of a family,—to inquire if you
are in earnest, or not,—and if not,—why,—say it out, and
let her alone, and not stand in the way of others. There,—
I've out with it, and I sweat like rain.”

The poor man wiped his wet face with his handkerchief,
and looked anywhere but at Roy, who had managed to make
out from rather confused jumble that he had done wrong to
Georgie by allowing people to think there was anything
serious between them, and that as Georgie's father, Mr.
Burton had at last spoken to prevent more mischief in the
future. While acknowledging to himself that Mr. Burton
was right, and that Georgie had some cause for complaint,
Roy still found himself in a quandary, and uncertain how to
act. If he owed Georgie any redress, he ought as an honorable
man to pay it, and perhaps he could not do better.
She was a nice girl, he really believed, and would perhaps
make him as happy as any one he could select. He meant
to marry some time, and might as well do it now as to put
it off to a later period. And then the Bigelow offer did
trouble him a little, and he began to see that he had fallen
into the habit of looking upon Georgie as something essentially
his own when he chose to make up his mind that she
suited him.

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On the whole, she did suit him, and he would at once
arrange with her, and have the matter settled. All this
passed through his mind in much less time than it has taken
us to write it, and he was about to put his thoughts into
words, when across the lawn came the sound of a merry,
girlish voice, which he knew to be Miss Overton's; and
again blue jackets, and brown eyes, and little feet brought a
throb of something he could not define to his heart, and
Georgie did not seem quite so desirable as she had a moment
before. But he must say something, and so he began
to explain that he meant no harm to Georgie by his attentions;
that he esteemed her highly, and could not deny
having had thoughts of making her his wife; but that he
found himself so comfortable just as he was, with her always
available when he wanted her society, that he had put the
matter off as a something in the future; and so, perhaps,
had wronged her, but he would endeavor—

He did not finish the sentence, for a servant just then
appeared around a clump of evergreens, telling him they
were waiting for him upon the lawn, where the refreshments
were ready to be served.

“Yes, I'll come at once;” and with a sense of relief,
Roy jumped up, and turning to Mr. Burton, said: “You
may be sure I shall do right in the future, whatever I may
have done in the past. But tell me, please,”—and Roy's
voice dropped to a whisper,—“did she know you were to
speak to me? Did she desire it?”

“Certainly not,” Mr. Burton replied, with some little
asperity of manner, which Roy acknowledged was just,
while at the same time he was glad to be assured that
Georgie did not know.

She would have fallen in his estimation, if she had, and he
wanted to think as well of her as he could; for, in his mind,
as he walked back to the lawn, there was a rapidly forming

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resolution to propose to her immediately, and thus make
amends for any harm done her heretofore.

The tables looked very pretty under the trees, with fruit,
and flowers, and ices, and silver; and the guests were in their
gayest moods; but something was the matter, and Roy felt
as if oppressed with a nightmare as he did the duties of host,
seeing nothing distinctly except Miss Overton's face, which,
flushed with excitement, seemed prettier than ever. He did
not care for Miss Overton that he knew of; certainly he had
never had a thought of loving her, and yet he knew every
time she moved, and what she did, and what she said, and
something connected with her made it harder for him to
concentrate his mind on Georgie, as he felt in duty bound
to do.

The lawn tea was over at last, and the little party were
talking of a game of croquet by moonlight, when down one
of the gravel-walks came Mrs. Burton, her rich silk rustling
about her, and her lace streamers floating back from her
head. She had concluded to drive over in the carriage, she
said, as some of the young people might be glad to ride
home.

She was very affiable and gracious, and when questioned
with regard to Georgie, said she was better,—so much better,
indeed, that she was up and dressed, and then, by various
little subterfuges, she tried to decoy Roy into going to the
house, and finally succeeded by insisting that his mother
must have a shawl if she persisted in staying out there in the
evening air. Wholly unsuspicious, Roy started for the house,
and, looking into the parlor as he passed through the hall,
gave vent to an exclamation of surprise at seeing Georgie
Burton reclining upon a little divan standing in the bay-window.
As Mrs. Burton had said, Georgie was better;
her headache had disappeared, and she had thought often
and regretfully of the party at Leighton, and wished herself

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with them. As she felt stronger, and her nerves became
more quiet, the terror of the previous night, when her secret
seemed in danger of being discovered, grew less and less.
Maude was to be her sister, and, of course, it was for her
interest to keep to herself whatever might be derogatory to
any member of Jack's family; and, beside that, in thinking
over all that had been said, Georgie was not quite sure as
to how much Maude knew, and in that doubt was some
comfort. Moreover, she meant to keep her part of the contract
religiously, and Edna had nothing to fear from her for
the present. If Roy should show a decided liking for her,
while she, in turn, tried to practise on him the wiles which
had lured poor Charlie to his destruction, she might, in
some quiet way, warn him or Mrs. Churchill as to whom
they were harboring. Anonymous letters were always available,
and she should not hesitate a moment when it became
necessary to act. But for the present she should be very
gracious and kind to Miss Overton; and having thus decided
upon her rôle, she felt extremely anxious to begin; and
when her aunt suggested driving over to Leighton, she consented
readily, and dressed herself with unusual care, thinking
as she did so, that a little less color than she usually
had, and a little heaviness of her eyes, was not unbecoming.
And she was right; for the traces of her headache
softened rather than detracted from her brilliant beauty, and
she had seldom looked better than when Roy found her in
the recess of the window, her face a little pale, and indicative
of recent suffering, her eyes very gentle, and even sad
in their expression, and her hands folded together upon her
lap in a tired kind of way, as if she was glad to rest, and did
not care to be disturbed even by Roy himself.

To do Georgie justice, she had no suspicion whatever
that her uncle had been interfering in her behalf, and her
face lighted up with a glow which made her wonderfully

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beautiful, as she sat with her shawl of bright cherry thrown
around her shoulders, and showing well against her simple
dress of soft black tissue.

Roy liked her in black; he had told her so once at Newport,
when her dress was silken tissue, and her only ornament
a spray of golden-rod twined among her glossy curls.
She could not get golden-rod, but she had placed a white
rose in her hair, and another upon the front of her dress,
and Roy thought what a fine picture she made, with the setting
sunbeams falling around her. And this picture might
be his for the asking, he was very sure, and his heart
gave a throb of something like pleasure at finding her alone.

“Why, Georgie!” he exclaimed, coming forward, and
offering her his hand; “this is a surprise; I did not expect
to find you here.”

“Which does not mean, I hope, that I am not welcome?”
Georgie said, with one of her rare smiles.

“Certainly not; you are always welcome. How is that
poor head? better, I hope,” Roy replied, still holding her
hand and looking down upon her, while she blushed coyly,
and affected to draw her hand away from his. “What
makes you have such dreadful headaches, I wonder?” Roy
said next, as he took a seat beside her, forgetful entirely of
his mother's shawl, for which he had been sent.

Georgie did not know why she was so afflicted, unless it
was from having too much time to think; she believed she
would be better if she had some aim in life, some interest
beside just living for her own gratification. She wanted
something to do; something which would be of real benefit to
mankind, and she had had serious thoughts of offering herself
to the Freedman's Bureau as a teacher of negroes. That
would rouse her up, and she should feel as if she were of
use to somebody; now she was not, and she was getting
tired of eternally thinking of fashion and one's self.

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Georgie talked right along, clothing her sentiments in very
appropriate language, and appearing as much in earnest as
if she really had been meditating a trial of life among the
negroes, whereas she knew in her heart that she would die
sooner than sacrifice herself in that way, and that the idea
had birth in her brain that very instant when she gave it expression.
Accustomed to Roy as she was, she saw at a
glance the change in his manner toward her, and always on
the lookout for opportunities where he was concerned, she
seized the present one and made the most of it.

Roy had highly eulogized some young ladies from Albany
who had left luxurious homes, and given themselves to the
wearisome task of teaching the freedmen; and knowing this,
Georgie proposed to martyr herself just for effect, and her
ruse worked well, for the true honest man at her side, who had
never deceived a person in his life, had no conception of the
depths of art and hypocrisy which she was capable of practising.
He believed she did want something to occupy her
mind, that she was tired of the idle, aimless life fashionable
ladies led, and he felt himself drawn towards her as he never
had before. She certainly could make him happy, and perhaps
he might as well speak now, and have it settled. But
before he had a chance to do so, Georgie suddenly assumed
a troubled, perplexed look, and, after a little hesitancy said:

“Roy, you seem about as much like a brother to me as
Jack does himself, and I want to ask you something in strict
confidence. Do you know anything against Charlie Bigelow,
of Boston, the one we met at Saratoga? He has proposed
to a friend of mine, and my opinion is wanted in the matter.
I rather liked him, but men sometimes know each other
better than women know them, and as I am interested in
my friend's happiness, I wish you to tell me honestly if you
would advise her to accept him.”

Georgie looked innocently at him, but her eyes drooped

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beneath something which she saw in his, and her cheeks
burned painfully, while the better side of her nature asserted
itself for an instant, and cried out against suffering Roy
Leighton to take the step she felt sure he was meditating. It
was true that every word she had uttered since he had joined
her had been spoken with a direct reference to this end; but
she trembled now that she saw the end approaching, and half
raised her hand as if to ward it off. The thought of losing
Georgie made her more valuable to Roy, and he could not
let her go without an effort to keep her. The blue jacket
and the brown eyes and tiny boots were forgotten, and bending
over the beautiful woman, he said:

“Georgie, something tells me that the young friend of
whom you have spoken is yourself. Do you love Charlie
Bigelow, Georgie?”

He spoke so kindly that the hot tears came with a swift
rush to Georgie's eyes, which were very lustrous and beseeching,
when for an instant they looked up at Roy, who
continued:

“I don't believe you do; and if not, don't marry him for
the sake of an aim in life. Better carry out your other
Quixotic idea, and teach the Southern negroes. But why do
either? Why not come here and live with me? I have
always had an idea that you would come some time. Will
you, Georgie?”

For a moment Georgie sat perfectly silent, looking at him
with an expression of perfect happiness beaming in her eyes,
and showing itself in every feature of her face; then gradually
the expression changed, and was succeeded by one of
terror and remorse, and the dark eyes turned away from
Roy, and seemed to be looking far away at something which
made them terrible while that fixed, stony gaze lasted.
Wondering greatly at her manner, Roy said, “Georgie, won't
you answer me?”

[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]

And this time he passed his arm around her, but she
writhed herself from his embrace, and putting out both
hands, said impetuously

“Don't, Roy; don't touch me; don't say the words again
to me; take them back, please, lest it prove a greater temptation
than I can bear, for, Roy, oh, Roy, I do—I do love
you, and if I could I would so gladly live with you always;
but—but—I can't,—I can't. I am—I was—oh, Roy, take
the words back before I go quite mad.”

He almost thought her mad now, and came a little nearer
to her, asking what she meant, and why, if she loved him as
she had said, his asking her to marry him should affect her
so. And while he said this to her she began to recover her
composure, and to be more like herself. The good impulse
which had counselled her not to deceive Roy Leighton, and
impose herself upon him without a confession of the past,
was subsiding; and though there still were bitter pangs of
remorse and terrible regrets for the past, she began to feel
that she could not lose what she had desired so long, and to
Roy's questionings, she answered: “I am not so good as
you think me. I am not worthy of you. I am—you don't
know how bad I am. You would hate me if you did.”

She was growing excited again. All the good there was
in the woman was asserting itself in Roy's behalf, and she
continued:

“Everybody would hate me as I hate myself always.”

He took a step backward as if she really were the creature
she professed to be; but now it was her hand which
was reached out to him. She could not let him go, and she
gasped,—

“But Roy, with you, who are so noble and good, I could
learn to be better, and I will. I swear it here, that if you
make me your wife, I will be true and faithful, and do my
best to make you happy. Try me and see if I don't.”

[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]

Perplexed and bewildered with what he had seen and
heard, and half inclined already to be sorry, Roy was still
too honorable to draw back, and when she said so piteously,
“Try me, Roy, and see if I don't,” he took her offered
hand and pressed it between his own, and answered her:
“I know you will, Georgie. We all have faults, and you
must make allowances for mine, as I will for yours, which, I
am sure you overrate, or else I have strangely misjudged
you. Why, Georgie, you would almost make one believe
you had been guilty of some dreadful thing, you accuse
yourself so unmercifully.”

Roy laughed lightly as he said this, while Georgie felt for
a moment as if her heart were in her throat, and it was only
by the most powerful efforts of the will that she forced it
back, and recovered her powers of speech sufficiently to
say: “Don't imagine, pray, that I've murdered or stolen,
or done anything that makes me amenable to the law.
It is general badness;” and her old smile broke for the
first time over her face, to which the color was coming back.

“You are so good, that nothing less than perfection
should ever hope to win you, and I am so far from that; but
I am going to be better, and the world shall yet say that Roy
Leighton chose wisely and well.”

She had settled it, and Roy was an engaged man; and as
he looked down upon the beautiful face of his fiancée, he
felt that the world would even now say he had done well
without waiting for any improvement in his betrothed, who
looked up at him in such a loving, confiding way, that he
naturally enough stooped and kissed her lips, and called her
his darling, and felt sure that he loved her, and was happy
in doing so.

Georgie possessed the rare gift of going rapidly from one
extreme mood to another. She had been very low down in
the depths of humiliation, and in her excitement had almost

p595-275 [figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]

told Roy secrets she guarded as she did her life; and from
that depth she had risen to the heights of bliss, trembling a
little as she remembered how near she had come to being
stranded by her own act, and mentally chiding herself for
her weakness in allowing herself to be so excited about
something Roy never could know unless Jack or Maude betrayed
her, as she was sure they would not. She had detected
the wavering for a moment on Roy's part, and lest it
should occur again, and work detriment to her cause, she
said to him:

“I do not believe in secret engagements, and shall tell
Aunt Burton at once, as you, of course, will tell your
mother.”

Then Roy did wince a little, and thought of Miss Overton,
and wished Georgie was not in such a hurry to have it
known that they were engaged, and told her she was right,
and he would tell his mother that night, and asked if they
should not join his guests upon the lawn. Georgie's languor
was all gone, and, taking Roy's arm, she went with him
through the house and out into the beautiful grounds, feeling
as she went a sense of ownership in them all, which
made her walk like a queen as she approached the group
upon the lawn, and received their words of greeting.