true feelings; for, Julien, they can never be more than those of a sister.”
Bitter, indeed, were these words to Julien Neville—doubly bitter because he knew Gertrude too well to doubt the strength of an attachment which would enable so proud a spirit to endure the mortification of such a confession. Yet with all his disappointment, he could find no heart to blame, even for an instant, the stricken form before him.
“Oh! Gertrude,” he said, “nothing can change my love for you, and I will not even ask yours in return. I will strive to be satisfied with a sister’s affection, only give me the blessed privilege of ever remaining near you to cherish and protect.”
“It cannot be, Julien. I know how free from selfishness your love is; and I know that could you see the wild emotions which the recalled memories of those hours have this day awakened, you would never wish me to be other to you than I am. This must be our last meeting, Julien, unless you will promise not to use one persuasion to induce me to change—not that I fear my own strength, but because every effort which you make will only increase the misery which I now feel.”
Hours passed before that promise was given.
Poor Julien Neville! He left Gertrude that night with the full belief that in all the world there was no balm for a heart so wounded as his own.
When Gertrude entered her father’s library early the next morning, she found him sleeping lethargically in his large arm-chair. Wondering that he should be up so much sooner than his custom—or that he could thus sleep when he knew of his utter ruin, she looked in surprise upon him.
She knew not that all the weary night he had paced the room, weeping in bitter agony over the loss of his worshipped wealth.
Drawing closer to him, she said—“Father, I have something to say to you, will you listen?” There was no answering sound, save
