"I WILL NEVER HUMBLE MYSELF TO YOU AGAIN."

Helen Fox was a very bright girl. She did not tell Kathleen that Ralph Chainey frequently visited the house, nor did she mention to him that Kathleen was to be her guest. Yet she knew very well that the unhappy young lovers were sure to meet under her roof.

And, in fact, Kathleen had not been twenty-four hours at Helen's when George Fox encountered Ralph somewhere, and dragged him home with him.

Kathleen was playing and singing for Helen. Her back was turned to the door, so she did not know when the two young gentlemen entered and silently seated themselves, obeying a gesture from Helen.

The young girl, unconscious of her lover's presence, sung on, sweetly and sadly:

The plaintive words rang in sad echoes through her lover's brain:

She turned around, and in a minute more she saw him coming forward to speak to her. A start, and she recovered herself enough to speak to him, but her voice faltered, and the little hand, as it touched his, was deadly cold. It was like the old, sad song:

She did not know what he was saying to her, or what she murmured in reply. She could realize nothing clearly but the ecstatic consciousness of his presence, that had such power to thrill her whole being.

Then she found herself slipping into a seat by Helen, and twining her cold fingers in those of her friend. They turned the conversation cleverly away from her, but in a very few moments George Fox got up and left the room, saying as he went:

"I will get those specimens we were talking about, Ralph."

Ten minutes later he called down the stairs:

"Helen, will you please come up and help me find those things I brought from Palestine for Ralph?"

"George can never find anything without my assistance," laughed the young girl, as she excused herself and left the room.

The unhappy lovers were alone together—perhaps by the clever scheming of George and Helen, perhaps by chance; who could tell?

There ensued a moment of intense embarrassment. Kathleen, sitting with down-dropped eyes, felt her lover's eager brown eyes upon her, and a deep blush arose to her beautiful face. Slowly she raised her bashful eyes and they met his—deep, passionate, reproachful, beseeching, all in one. In spite of herself, her own gaze replied to that look—answered love for love.

A moment, and he rose and came toward her. She thrilled with ecstasy as he sat down by her side. Her little hand, icy cold a moment before, grew burning hot as he touched it with his own.

"Kathleen, forgive me," he murmured, "but I can not let this blessed chance pass. I wrote to you. Did you receive my letter?"

"Yes," she faltered.

"Cruel girl! And you would not reply? Kathleen, was that just or fair? Could you find no excuse in your heart for me when I had told you my whole sad story?"

"I—I—was sorry for you. I—wanted to—write—but I promised not to," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Promised not to write to me!" His dark eyes flashed with anger. "Who was so cruel as to forbid you? Mr. Darrell?"

"No—No! Teddy knows nothing. It was my uncle. It seemed to him that it would not be right to my—to—to—Mr. Darrell!"

"To Mr. Darrell! Oh, Kathleen, is it true, that you will marry him? Do you love him?"

"Do not ask me. It is not right. You—you—are not free!" she cried, trying to be loyal to her absent betrothed.

"I shall be—soon. The courts will certainly grant me a divorce from that dreadful woman. But then, Kathleen, my freedom will avail me nothing if you are lost to me! Oh, my own love—my darling! be brave, and break through the fetters that bind you to this man you do not love! Wait for me?"

Oh, the passionate pleading in his voice and eyes! how they thrilled her soul. She wished to herself that she had never seen poor Teddy, whom she had so rashly promised to marry.

"Oh, I must not listen to you!" she sobbed. "Please, Ralph, do not speak to me so; do not look at me! I can not bear your eyes!" and she hid her own with a trembling hand.

There was silence for a moment, but Ralph could not give it up. It seemed to him that he was pleading for more than life.

"Kathleen, don't be angry, dear; but I can not give it up so easily," he began. "If I thought you did not love me, if I believed you cared for Teddy Darrell, I would not say another word. But—if—I—were—free—you—would love me again, would you not, my dear one?"

Kathleen had been fighting down the weakness of her loving heart. She looked at him with sad, hopeless eyes.

"Spare me!" she sighed. "Oh, Ralph, we must not count on what has been or what may be. I am promised to another, and I can not break my vow. Think of the suffering I should bring to Teddy's noble heart."

"He would soon forget you," Ralph Chainey urged.

"Then you may soon forget me, too," she replied.

"But, Kathleen, my darling, it is so different. I love only you, while your Teddy has had scores of loves. Think, if you marry him, his fickle heart may soon tire of you; then how wretched you would be!"

"I do not believe that Teddy is fickle. If I thought so, I would beg him to release me from my promise. But he loves me truly, in spite of his past, and so I must be true to him," sadly replied Kathleen.

"And your marriage day is set?" he asked, gloomily.

"It is only two weeks from now," she replied; then her courage failed her; she burst into tears, and sobbed miserably against his shoulder.

Ralph tried to soothe her, whispering:

"If he knew you cared like this—for—me—he would not want to marry you. No true lover would accept the hand without the heart."

"He must never know—for—I—I—shall learn to love him by and by. Mrs. Stone says so; they all say so," she whispered.

"They are driving you into a—a—a wretched future with their silly advice!" cried the young man, violently, despair goading him to desperation. He pushed her from him and rose to his feet.

"I have been deluding myself," he said, bitterly. "I thought you loved me. I was mistaken, I see. I will never humble myself to you again, proud Kathleen. From this moment to my life's end, we are strangers. Farewell!" and with a stately bow he was gone.

Kathleen sprung to her feet with wild despair at her loss.

"Oh, Ralph! come back!" she cried, faintly; but he was beyond the reach of her voice.

She threw herself weeping into the chair where he had sat but just now.

"Gone—and forever!" she sobbed in bitterest agony, and there came over her a longing to die and be at rest from her sorrow. Life seemed too bitter to be borne, now that the last hope had failed, and Ralph had gone from her "forever."