TWO weeks had passed since the Osborn dinner. One morning the captain observed to Hugh, “My boy, have you been idling your time away, or can’t you decide?”

“I don’t quite catch your meaning,” said Hugh, pleasantly.

“Well, to be more explicit,” replied Captain Osborn, “you haven’t yet asked Ethel Horton to become your wife, have you?”

Hugh’s face reddened, and he answered, slowly,’ “No, I have not.”

“Perhaps you have changed your mind,” the captain went on. “Mrs. Osborn says you are desperately in love with Miss Hampton, but I don’t rely on second-hand evidence, and that is why I ask you pointblank. Of course, follow your heart, my boy, wherever it leads you, and you’ll not make any great mistake, provided your affection is reciprocated. Reason cannot be depended on in such matters, for usually it spreads its wings and flies away when we become thoroughly inoculated with the illusion of love.”

“My dear Captain,” replied Hugh, “I feel it to be both a duty and a privilege to declare my love to Ethel Horton. I believe I love her, and I am ashamed of myself for having procrastinated as I have.”

“Are n’t you sure that it is love, my boy?” asked the captain.

“No,” replied Hugh. “I am impressed, however, that my interest in Ethel Horton is genuine, and I know that whatever I say to her will be sincere.”

“Well, you had better say it pretty quick,” observed the captain, gravely. “My wife tells me that the Englishman will be here to-morrow.”

“To-morrow,” repeated Hugh, looking at the captain in surprise.

“To-morrow,” repeated the captain, “and I fancy that, with all his English traits, bad manners, and poor taste, he will not dilly-dally as you have about asking a girl like Ethel Horton to become his wife.”

Hugh made no reply, but all day long he kept thinking of Ethel Horton. Sometimes Marie Hampton’s deep blue eyes would look at him from under their long lashes, and he would fancy that in their pleading sweetness he beheld a fascination that lost itself in mystery. He put it away from him, however, and went on thinking of Ethel.

That evening found him at the Grove. Ethel’s greeting was all that a hesitating lover could desire. She was seated in an easy chair on the wide veranda overlooking the terraced lawn and the lake. The cool breezes from the far-away foothills came gently down, gladdening the landscape with their refreshing breath.

Hugh seated himself near her, and they soon fell into a pleasant conversation. He fancied that there was less restraint in her manner and voice than usual, but in her soft brown eyes there was still a look of sadness. The fun-loving girl he had first known was now a subdued and saddened woman.

“I have something that I have long wanted to say to you,” said Hugh.

“Indeed?” she asked, listlessly, raising her eyes to his face.

“Yes, something I wanted to say long ago. I can hardly believe,” he went on, “that we have known each other only a year.” The flush had gone from his face as he spoke, and in its place had come an expression of uncertainty. Ethel moved uneasily in her chair. Her heart cried out, “Oh, Jack! Jack!” while her better judgment prompted her to look upon Hugh Stanton as a welcome avenue of escape.

“Ethel,” said he, and his voice was low and earnest, as he bent toward her, “I have come to-night to ask you to become my wife. I do not say that my feelings are those that are pictured sometimes in fiction; but, Ethel, the deep respect I have felt for you from our first meeting has ripened into a warm and intense feeling. I cannot pay you a higher compliment than I have in asking you to Become my wife. I am filled with a chivalrous sentiment that will not be satisfied unless the right is given me to protect and care for you.” He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it deferentially. She did not seek to withdraw it, but remained silent.

When Hugh looked at her face, he saw that her eyes were full of tears. She was gazing far away across the brown prairie.

“Yes, Hugh,” she finally faltered, “you have, indeed, paid me a compliment—the greatest that man can pay to woman, but I fear that you would not be satisfied with what I have to give.”

“Satisfied!” cried Hugh, in the excitement of the moment, “satisfied? Why, Ethel, tell me that you care for me, and it will make me the happiest man in the world.”

There was a pitiful look in her eyes as they rested on his face.

“Hugh,” she said very slowly, “it is a woman’s heart that an earnest man desires when he asks a woman to become his wife. My heart is like the worm-eaten rosebud,—it is the semblance of what you seek, not the reality.”

Hugh imagined that she referred to Lord Avondale, and, again, he told himself that it could not be true,—that she surely was not grieving for him.

“Listen, Hugh,” she went on, “listen, while I tell you of a great love which grew up in my heart almost in a day, and which flourishes and grows stronger with each passing hour. The fear that my love is unreciprocated has grown almost to certainty. The love still remains,—but hear my story, and then,—then, Hugh, if you still wish me to be your wife, after you have had time to think it over, my answer shall be as you wish.” She then told him briefly of Jack Redfield, and of the great love that had come to her on the shores of Lake Geneva,—a love for him that must abide forever,—although he, perhaps, had already forgotten, as he had so long left her letter unanswered. Hugh’s astonishment was very great,—he was stunned,—but he did not mention the fact that he even knew Jack Redfield.

When she had finished her narration, he asked: “What of Lord Avondale?”

“Oh, Hugh,” she replied, “I shall marry you, if at all, to escape that calamity. Do you not feel honored,” she said, smiling through her tears, “at the use I may make of your devotion?”

“My devotion is very great; it is eternal, Ethel,” replied Hugh, huskily.

“Understand, Hugh,” said Ethel, “my respect and confidence in you are almost limitless. Indeed, I have come to look upon you as a tower of strength. It is my desire that you should deliberate long and earnestly before you arrive at a conclusion. When you have done this, Hugh, know that your wishes shall be mine.”

They had arisen from their chairs, and were standing near the edge of the veranda. When Ethel ceased speaking, Hugh remained silent for a long time. He finally said:

“Ethel, my little girl, I feel more than ever that I have a duty to perform, and that duty is to protect you.” He lifted her hand again to his lips, and then hurried away. A little later he was galloping madly across the prairie toward Meade, where he was soon in the privacy of his own room.

For the first time in his life, he believed Jack Redfield to be a scoundrel. All his chivalrous manhood had been aroused by Ethel’s story, and he determined to protect her—though it cost him his life.

Through the long, weary hours of the night he paced restlessly back and forth in his room, nor did he seek his pillow until the gray of another day had dawned—the day that brought Lord Avondale again to Meade.