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greatest difficulty she could restrain herself from bursting out laughing in his face. But his serious look stopped her. Evidently this was no laughing matter to him, but on the contrary a question of vital importance.

"Don't laugh, Margery," he said hastily, seeing the ill-concealed merriment in her eyes, and fearful of what her answer might be, "don't laugh. I know this must seem strange to you, but if you only knew how long and how well I have loved. you, you would not wonder at my boldness. I dare say it is folly, madness if you like, but it is real and strong enough, God knows so real-I sometimes think it is killing me."

“I am not laughing, Mr. Norman,” said Margie, looking gravely back at him. "And I think it is very kind of you to care so much for me. I don't think you would care at all if you really knew me; but even if you did, it would be of no use. I could never do what you ask-I mean, I could never be your wife."

She turned her eyes away not to see the quick look of pain which passed over his countenance. Then she went on, in a clear steady voice, without the least trace of trouble or emotion

"I don't want to be married at all. I should hate to leave father and Essie, and I have never yet seen any one whom I love better than I do

them. So please don't think about it any more, and I'll forget what you said, and we shall all be friends just as we were before."

He shook his head sorrowfully.

"Ah, Margie, it isn't so easy, when one has loved like I have-when the love for some one else has become part of one's life, one can't just pull it up and throw it aside and begin afresh. You may despise me, and laugh at my love for you, but I shall never change. Some people can, it is true, but I never could."

He spoke with such conviction that Margie felt something like remorse springing up in her heart.

"I am very sorry," she said quite resolutely. "But I am sure it is no use. And I hope some day you will find some one who will better reward your love. Please go away now, or father and Essie will be back."

Andrew obeyed silently, feeling he had no right to insist after what Margie had said.

But he stopped with his hand on the door and turned back to take one last look at her.

"I might have known this beforehand," he said. "And perhaps I was wrong to speak at all. But I could not help it."

Margie remained silent, but still he could not tear himself away.

"I thought we might have been so happy," he

said with a heavy sigh. "We should have lived together with our hearts set on the same hopes, and have made others happy all around us. And nothing should ever have come near you to vex or hurt you, Margie."

He lingered still in the doorway, hoping she might give him one kind look or parting word, but she neither spoke nor stirred. Then he turned away, and left the house.

The sun was setting behind the limes of the Manor-house hill as he walked down the village street. Its slanting rays fell on the brown faces and curly locks of the children playing at marbles under the old walnut-tree, and caught the thatch of the cottage roofs, which shone with a ruddy gold. But Andrew was only conscious that the light had gone out of his life, and whichever way he turned his eyes, the path was all dark before him.

CHAPTER IV.

"Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;

Longest stays, when sorest chidden;

Laugh and flies, when press'd and bidden."

CAMPBELL..

T was with a sense of great relief that
Margery heard the door close behind
Andrew Norman, and she knew that
he was well out of the house.

Left to her own reflections she began to consider the unexpected offer which had just been made her. It was the first time Margery had been placed in the awkward position of giving a man a decided refusal, so it was not to be wondered if she felt a certain amount of conpunction together with a good deal of amusement.

It is true that young Bill Fisher, the blacksmith's son, had many times assured her of his unalterable attachment to her, but then Bill was a silly boy two years younger than herself, and blest with a

very scanty stock of wits, so Margie had only laughed in his face, and told him to mind his own business. But with Mr. Norman it was quite another thing, and the more Margie thought about it, the greater was her bewilderment. She had always looked upon the schoolmaster as a very clever and learned man, who showed his good taste by his friendship for her father, and in the kindness of his heart looked with the same good will upon herself and Essie.

But to think of him as in love with any one, least of all with herself, was indeed extraordinary, almost incomprehensible. And yet he had told her so himself, and the manner of his confession, the earnestness of his appeal left no doubt as to his sincerity. To say the truth, she had felt more compassion for him than she had liked to own in her dread of allowing him to think she might relent, and was really sorry to give him pain when she had always received so much kindness from him.

But then she thought again how ludicrous the idea was, how much every one in King's Marden would laugh to think of her being Andrew Norman's wife, living at the school-house and settling down into a grave matron, with a husband always buried in dusty books. It was no use, the very notion was too absurd; and all alone as she was, standing at the open window where Andrew

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