that he is, he pauses before he speaks words that may never be forgiven him.
"I fear," he says, slowly, "that some day this existence will become so intolerable, that his love for you will break all bounds . . . and he will ask you to go away with him."
Dead silence.
"And this is your opinion of my true lover?" I ask; "and do you think I should go with him, pray?"
He does not answer.
"Oh, heavens!" I cry, with a tearless sob, "that I should have fallen so low as for you to think this of me!"
"Have I thought it?" he cries, swiftly. "God knows that in my eyes you are the most innocent of His creatures; but, Nell. . . Nell, are you so strong, is he so strong, that you should fare better than many a woman as fair and pure and proud as you? I don't speak to you in fear, but in warning. I am your brother now—I have taken care of you for a long while past, and if ever any words of mine will keep you from sorrow, I will speak them, though you grow to hate me for speaking them to you."
There is a long silence; then I say—
"George, I thank you."
"God bless you, darling!" he says, so impulsively, that he seems to be flying straight through the impedimenta of hay that divided us; "you are as plucky as you are good—not one woman in a thousand would take it as beautifully as you have done."
"George!"
"Yes, dear."
"I don't think there was ever any fear—not much. But I had never thought of such a thing, never; and, perhaps, if it had really come to that dreadful pass, I should have been so astonished—I might have lost my head and done something wicked . . . but I
