"Felt what, Louis?"

"Leaving South Shore."

"Leaving us? O! are you going to leave
us!" cried poor Winifred, bursting into tears.
"What shall I do without you, Louis—my
friend—my brother—my own dear Louis!"

"And are you so sorry, Winifred?" said
Louis in a low voice, holding her tenderly
pressed to his heart.

"How can you ask, Louis! What will be
my life without you? I cannot even imagine
it without you to share it! Louis! Louis!
what shall I do when you have left me?"

"Winifred,"—and Louis trembled, so that
he could scarcely speak—"do you then
really love me—love me as my wife
should?"

The girl started back; she flung off his
hands, and looked at him with a wild, frightened
look. Her colour went and came; her
heart throbbed violently; her eyes were dim,
and she could scarcely see. At first she was
about to deny, and then to leave him—to
rush from him to the end of the earth, if that
were possible; and then these two impulses
passed, and something broke and something
rose within her. She went back to her old
place, threw her arms round his neck, and,
sobbing on his shoulder, said, "O Louis, I
believe this is love!"

There was no time then for explanations.
Louis could make no conditions, Winifred
oppose no conflicting duties. The dream must
go on for a short time; and, though the pain
of separation mingled with the first joy of
their love, yet this could well be borne when
helped out with such divine stimulant.

Months passed before Louis even spoke of
return, and months again before he could
execute his wish. In all, it was between two
and three years before they met again. In
the meantime he had been in the heart of
the world—in the midst of London life—
struggling, fighting, conquering, so far; but
in the struggle his ambition and all his
worldly passions were roused and excited. He
had been too with conventional people; and
had got more than ever of that conventional
honour and morality which are the farthest
possible removed from truth. His object in
life was success—by all fair means, and
honourable. And though he would not have
sacrificed love entirely, yet that love must be
as compatible and as helpful as might be to
the future he had marked out for himself.
To Winifred herself there was no kind of objection.
She had fortune; she was of good family;
and her reputation, even through the undeserved
reproaches sought to be cast on it, was
yet grand and noble. But his objection was
to the child. So long as Mary was with
Winifred, she was no wife for him. For so
long as she kept the little one by her side,
and gave her her name, there would be still
the scandal and the sneer; and his wife must
be not only pure before God, but blameless
before men. No; she must choose between
her love for him and the little one. They
could not exist together.

This was the feeling, then, that Louis
brought with him to South Shore, when he
returned after more than two years' absence,
to arrange for their wedding. And these were
the reflections with which he overwhelmed
Winifred, in the first days of his arrival.

"You are not serious, Louis?" she said,
turning pale.

"Never more serious in my life! My
dear girl, we must have a little common sense
in this world! We cannot always act solely
on impulse against our best interests."

"But dishonour and perjury can never be
our interest, Louis," said Winifred. "Not
to speak of their intrinsic wrong, they are
even bad stepping-stones to fortune."

"Dishonour and perjury are hard words,
Winifred."

"But true ones, dear."

"That may be. But, dishonour or not,"
said Louis, rather angrily, "it must be done.
Once now, and for ever, I distinctly refuse to
sanction this absurd adoption of yours; nor
do I recognise your duty or your right in
maintaining it. Let the child be sent to
school. I do not wish her to go to the
workhouse, or to come to harm; but I wish
absolutely that my house shall be free of her, and
your name dissociated from her."

"Don't say that, Louis," said Winifred,
trembling. "Do not say that I am to desert
my child, for that means I am to lose you.
I could not break my vow, Louis, though I
might break my heart."

"Folly! The heated fancy of an
enthusiastic girl! Is this to be put in competition
with my love, Winifred?"

"O Louis, nothing in the world can be
put in competition with that," cried Winifred,
"but duty!"

"A mere play on words. Your duty is to me."

"And to the helpless and the dead," said
Winifred, softly.

"Then you don't love me, Winifred?"

"More than my life, Louis," cried Winifred,
passionately.

"But not more than this senseless child?"

"Not more than my honour, my duty, and
my vow," she said, weeping.

"Let us talk no more of it," said Louis,
rising. "I leave your fate, and mine too, in
your hands. Think well before you decide;
and remember, that you have to choose
between a superstitious literalism or my
love, my happiness, and my life."

And he left the room, sternly.

This was the first of a long series of
conversations, all in the same tone, and all on the
point; Louis becoming angry, and
Winifred sorrowful; but both firm, and
with each discussion less than ever disposed
to give way. At last Louis, one day, more
passionately than usual, even swore he
would not marry any woman in the world
who refused the condition he had made;