Waterbury evening Democrat., 1892-04-27


 attempted to kiss me. realized then that must speak and act. drew away from him as far as I could and took my hand from his.
 "No. no. no," cried. CT cannot. I cannot"
 He started, and for a moment looked in my face blanlkly. His features paled, flushed and paled alternately; then again lighted up with 8 new hope. He clasped my hand once more and held fl with a vice-lilze grip. tried to wrench it away, but he frightened his hold until winced with pain. He leaned towards me until his hot breath scorched my cheeK. In hoarse, strange whisper he addressed me.
 s'No, Agnes, 1" he said, pleadingly, ''do not say that. For the love of Heaven do not. You do not mean it. You sure ly cannot. You will be my wife, won't you?"
 Iwept. How hard 1t was to resist his pleading! How hard to deny him after all his kindness and loving carel How hard to mar and cripple his lifel Yet, must. do not love him and could not marry without love. I became quite calm directly by strenuously exerting
  his eyes answered him quietly.
 ''No, Mir. Cornell,'' said, ''I cannot marry you, because I would wrong both you and myself if did so when I did not love you. know am not worthy of such love as yours, and that in putting it away from me am put ting away a noble love and a noble heart. but duty compels me to act as do."
 ''Then you do not love me?" he questioned calmly, but oh, so sadly. His was the calmness and sadness of despair.
 q do not" replied, "but would to Heaven did.''
 But you may learn to love me-" he urged. &'I will wait and hope"
 "No, cannot promise that" I answered. ''I love one already, and I can never love another"
 He sighed deeply.
 Agnes" he continued, after a short silence, ''this is the bitterest hour of my life, because it has brought the death of my fondest hope. Must give you up now and forever?"
 "Yes, MT. Cornell, give me up and forget me. Think how unworthy am of your love and close me out of your thoughts
 Never, never. I have never loved another woman, and never shall cease to love you. I shall never forget you, Agnes, for your image is engraved on my heart for all eternity. You do not know what a deep, impressionable nature mine is. never forget"
 He paused, and, turning his head, stared long time out across the wide prairie. knew he wae suffering the most exquisite pain, for his face was strangely blanched and drawn while heartrending sighs escaped him. At last he turned again to me.
 "Agnes," he asked, 'are you inexor- able9 Will nothing can do or say win your heart to me? Remember my suffering is bitter and my disappoint- ment great. Remember my whole future happiness is at stake. Give me a thread of hope, and no matter how slender 1t is I will wait cheerfully, even for years, doing everything in my power to win your love. Remember, Agnes, how much depends on you, and do not deny me everything"
 ''I can promise you nothing but my friendship and gratitude" I replied, "because that is all [ have to give. Would to Heaven I could give you more, for then we would both be happier. But my heart Is not my own. I cannot control it, and cannot promise you anything from it's love-. We must part and you must forget me-
 ''This is bitter" he cried. ''You do not know how cruel and bitter it is."
 "Oh, God,"I cried inwardly, do | not? Have not tasted the same bitter draught2 Am not drinking it to the very dregs even at this moment? Aye, know only too well how cruel it alr is. The same pains that rend his heart are rending mine. The same disap- pointment that lies on him, crushing him down into the darkest despair, is lying on me with equal weight. The same black, cheerless, hopeless future that spreads out before him spreads out before me. Aye, indeed, know all he feels, all he suffers, but dare not tell him SOL
 We rode on for some distance. He evidently saw the futility of urging his suit further, and I realized that every word either of us spoke only seemed to add to our mutual pain. Finally I said:
 "Let's'return.''
 "Yes," he replied, i've had as well go back. There is no pleasure in driving now"
 He turned about and we retraced our journey. What silent, sad ride it was, and how glad felt when it was over. He helped me to alight at my door, and, holding my hand an instant, said:
 Miss Owens, remember that am; still your friend, and that what have said must not separate us. Good-by."
 Then he sprang to his seat and drove. away. looked after him, and oh, how, my heart swelled with pity and sympa- thy. CHAPTER XXI MY TROUBLES THICKEN For a month after Mir. Bernard's re- turn there was nothing in our relations of striking importance. At least I