Sitting in the quiet little room of Mrs. West that morning, with the golden sunlight of June shining in through the screen of flowers at the window, the pretty American girl listened to the story of the grande passion told in as eloquent phrases as the young soldier could command—a story as old as the world, but ever sweet and new.

Leonora listened with dewy eyes and flushing cheeks. She knew the value of all that he was offering to her—knew that he was wealthy, that he was heir to a title, that he had a warm, true, manly heart, and that in his affection for her he was running counter to the wishes and desires of all his friends. It was but natural that she should feel proud of his homage. She wished that she might have loved him in return. A sense of shame and embarrassment stole over her at the thought that while he offered her so much she could give him nothing save the calm regard of a friend.

She drew away the hand of which he had possessed himself, and the rich roses mantled her cheeks as she said, gently and sadly:

"I thank you very much for the honor you have done me, and I wish that I could love you, but—"

"But what? Oh, Leonora, you are not going to be cruel to me—you are not going to refuse me?" he cried, anxiously, and he looked so handsome and so ardent that her heart ached for him, and she wished again that she might have loved him, and said yes instead of no to his manly proposal.

"I am very sorry," she said, and the pretty face looked so shy and troubled, that he longed to gather her in his arms and kiss the sweet lips into smiles again. "I am very sorry, and I don't mean to be cruel, Lieutenant De Vere—but I must refuse, because I do not love you."

"Let me teach you," he cried, ardently. "I know I have been too premature. I have asked you to love me too soon; but I have been so afraid of a rival, my darling."

Leonora smiled pensively and bitterly.

"A rival," she said, with a quickly suppressed sigh. "Ah, you need not have feared that! No one would sacrifice anything for my sake but you."

He thought he understood the allusion, and his heart sunk. He gently touched the small hand that lay on her black dress.

"Do not judge any one hardly, Miss West," he said. "There are many who would love you and make sacrifices for you if they had the chance. And you know I should not have to make any sacrifice at all. I am rich in my own right. I could lift you at once from the level you now occupy to one more worthy of you—one you would adorn, and where your beauty and accomplishments would be rated at their full value. Oh, Leonora! do not say no just yet. Let me woo you a little longer—a month, a year. In time you might learn to love me. Let me still hope on. I love you so dearly I can not give you up yet!"

She blushed deeply, and the long lashes drooped over her cheeks, but she answered, firmly:

"It would be very cruel for me to let you keep on hoping like that, Lieutenant De Vere. I could never be yours if you waited months and years. I will tell you the truth. There is"—a gasp—"some one—some one else that I love."

A moment's dead silence. The girl drops her shamed face in her hands. Presently he says huskily, yet with manly courage:

"It is some fortunate suitor you have left in America. Let me congratulate you, Miss West."

But she answers, in a sad, shamed voice:

"No, you need not congratulate me. I am not any happier than you are. He—he does not love me."

"Does not love you? Then he must be a stock or a stone," De Vere says, indignantly.

"He is neither," says Leonora, with the pretty pensive smile she has worn throughout their interview. "But let us speak no more of it. I should not have confessed to you only to show you how futile it would be for you to go on loving me. I thought it but justice to you. It may make it easier for you to forget me."

"I shall never do that," he answers, with conviction.

"You think so now, but time will console you," smiling. "I shall be gone out of your life forever in a few weeks."

"Gone?" he echoes, blankly.

"Yes; I am going away in three weeks' time. Aunt West goes with me to America."

He starts.

"Is it possible?"

"Yes, we are going to seek a home in my own land. Bid me bon voyage, Lieutenant De Vere. You are the only friend I have made in England, that is, if I may call you my friend," wistfully.

He gulps down a great sigh of disappointment, regret, and pain, and holds out his hand.

"Yes, I am your friend, if I can not be your lover," he said, manfully.