The Russellville Democrat., 1881-03-03

words, that he had discussed my affairs He had perfect right--indeed he wa: wise, under the circumstances-to learr everything he could in regard to the
 man who stood between him and hi:
 hopes-an unworthy man, from every thought of whom it was his duty to try and win me, if he desired to be faithful to the friendship he had promised.
 The summer passed. The autumn fol- lowed. l woke up, suddenly, to the fact that the appointed season of probation had almost elapsed. Soon Mir. Ogilvie would come to me for my answer. And l? For weeks and weeks I had not re- tlected. I really believed that when the time came l should lay my hand in his and trust myself to his guidance. But when l was reused to reflection, ah, then l knew l was as far from being able, conscientiously, to grant what he want ed, as on the day when he first surprised me by his demand.
 Mir. Ogilvie was absent. He had gone to New York on business and would re- main there for month; when he came back l should have to decide. Only a month.
 Just after his departure, the newspa- per brought the announcement of old Mir. BallioPs death, and the memories aroused thereby proved to me just where l stood.
 It seemed very hard. But I saw plainly what 1 must do. I could not marry him-I could not. The old love was just as strong as ever Argue, strug- gle as 1 might, there it was. No human being could more heartily have upbraid- ed my weakness, my despicable weak ness, than l; but selfreproaches changed nothing-I loved Leonard Baliolstill.
 The days and the weeks went by-oh, how fast they flew. As the hard mo- ment drew nearer and nearer, 1 grew more afraid. It wrung my heart with pang as bitter as it had ever known to think of the pain I must give my good, generous friend But there was no escape. dared not marry him--it would be a sin.
 Every kind, cheerful epistle received from him left me more miserable, and answering them became more and more difficult. One afternoon 1 was sitting in my room when a servant entered and told me that MT. Ogilvie was down stairs. had not expected him for nearly a week yet; and the surprise and shock turned me absolutely faint and blind. {.
 He had come to repeat his question: oh, how was to answer it?
 l will admit that longed to go to him, and say yes, without giving myself time to think. The worldly advantages weighed with me. It seemed madness to lead a life of actual privation in many ways, considering the manner in which 1 had been reared, when affiuence, po- sition, all the good that the world most prizes was offered to me. It was harder still to deprive myself of the counsels and ompanionship, which were so sweet to me, were such rest and sup port. But l could not-I could not. Even after telling him the whole truth, he still pleaded-declared himself not afraid-I dared not accept his hand-I dared not.
 Itwas worse than useless to stop there in solitude, raging over my own folly, frightened by my own thoughts Each instant's delay rendered my task more difficult. l hurried down stairs. l reached the door of the room where he was waiting. With my hand on the lock l paused. l had mind to run away and send him word that I could not appear, or to write, and so avoid an interview.
 But he had heard my step. He open ed the door suddenly, took my two hands and drew me into the room. I could not speak at first. l shook from head to foot. I think I should have fallen if 1 had not chanced to see a chair close beside me and sunk blindlv into it.
 What, not word?" he said pleasant ly. q surprised you. I am sorry. It was wrong of me. Your mother wrote to me that you had not seemed well of late"
 1T think I have not been," fal- tered.
 He looked somewhat pale and worn; but, oh, the heavenly smile that soften- ed his lips-the angelic sweetness which frightened and transfgured his whole face.
 "Elinor," he said abruptly, T have come"
 put up my hands in eager pleading.
 Not to talk of myself, just yet" he said. "I have something to tell you. Elinor, bring you blessed news. Oh, believe me, l am thankful that l am per mitted to be the bearer. You were right to love on-against reaSon-against Balliol was worthy"
 grew so white and weak that I near ly fell from the chair.
 "Tell me-" l said, clutching his arm eagerly.
 He hurried back to New York to see you-to console you. But his uncle met him with terrible story. He showed, what seemed indisputable proofs that your father had been dishonest-"
 "lt is false, false-I will not listen"
 "Wait, Elinor Of course it was false; but then the proofs were so carefully prepared, that they seemed indisputa- ble. He agreed to be silent on one con dition, that his nephew would end his engagement with you. Leonard con- sented. He knew that it would not break your heart to lose a man who showed himself unworthy of your af- lection; but not all his love could save you from the effects of shame and dis grace"
 "Oh, my Godw I moaned.
 "He gave you up to screen your faith CTS memory-gaye you up for your own sake and your mothers, and for those little children whose whole future would have been wrecked by the disclosures the ruthless old man swore to make. You were lost to Leonard in any case. He knew you would never consent to marry him if your fathers name were furnished. So, to save that, to spare you, he did an act worthy of the noblest martyr who ever lived. He let his own honor be darkenedin your eyes; allowed you to believe him periured, despicable I I i