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great risk; I wish I had not wanted them."

"It was no risk for me," he answered.



"What can I send you in return?" she asked, as they walked

forwards. "I am going home to-morrow."



"Betty told me," Leonard said; "please, wait one minute."

He stepped down to the bank of the stream, washed his hands



carefully in the clear water, and came back to her, holding them,

dripping, at his sides.



"I am very ignorant," he then continued,--"ignorant and rough. You

are good, to want to send me something, but I want nothing. Miss



Bartram, you are very good."

He paused; but with all her tact and social experience, she did not



know what to say.

"Would you do one little thing for me--not for the ferns, that was



nothing--no more than you do, without thinking, for all your

friends?"



"Oh, surely!" she said.

"Might I--might I--now,--there'll be no chance tomorrow,--shake



hands with you?"

The words seemed to be forced from him by the strength of a fierce



will. Both stopped, involuntarily.

"It's quite dry, you see," said he, offering his hand. Her own



sank upon it, palm to palm, and the fingers softly closed over

each, as if with the passion and sweetness of a kiss. Miss



Bartram's heart came to her eyes, and read, at last, the question

in Leonard's. It was: "I as man, and you, as woman, are equals;



will you give me time to reach you?" What her eyes replied she

knew not. A mighty influence drew her on, and a mighty doubt and



dread restrained her. One said: "Here is your lover, your

husband, your cherished partner, left by fate below your station,



yet whom you may lift to your side! Shall man, alone, crown the

humble maiden,--stoop to love, and, loving, ennoble? Be you the



queen, and love him by the royal right of womanhood!" But the

other sternly whispered: "How shall your fine and delicate fibres



be knit into this coarsetexture? Ignorance, which years cannot

wash away,--low instincts, what do YOU know?--all the servile



side of life, which is turned from you,--what madness to choose

this, because some current of earthlymagnetism sets along your



nerves? He loves you: what of that? You are a higher being to

him, and he stupidly adores you. Think,--yes, DARE to



think of all the prosaic realities of life, shared with him!"

Miss Bartram felt herself growing dizzy. Behind the impulse which



bade her cast herself upon his breast swept such a hot wave of

shame and pain that her face burned, and she dropped her eyelids to



shut out the sight of his face. But, for one endless second, the

sweeter voice spoke through their clasped hands. Perhaps he kissed



hers; she did not know; she only heard herself murmur:

"Good-bye! Pray go on; I will rest here."



She sat down upon a bank by the roadside, turned away her head, and

closed her eyes. It was long before the tumult in her nature



subsided. If she reflected, with a sense of relief, "nothing was

said," the thought immediately followed, "but all is known." It



was impossible,--yes, clearly impossible; and then came such a wild

longing, such an assertion of the right and truth and justice of



love, as made her seem a miserablecoward, the veriest slave of

conventionalities.



Out of this struggle dawned self-knowledge, and the strength which

is born of it. When she returned to the house, she was pale and



weary, but capable of responding to Betty Rambo's constant

cheerfulness. The next day she left for the city, without having



seen Leonard Clare again.

II.



Henry Rambo married, and brought a new mistress to the farm-house.

Betty married, and migrated to a new home in another part of



the State. Leonard Clare went back to his trade, and returned no

more in harvest-time. So the pleasant farm by the Brandywine,






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