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 gladness, she would not have hesitated; but now it—it was—it was not that world of yesterday.

"Yes," she said faintly; "she told me that she had left a letter for you."

"If was about the work here," said Thornton gently. "Her whole soul seemed wrapt up in that—and she asked me as her last wish to do what she would have done if she had lived; and she spoke of you very beautifully." Thornton paused for a moment—then he laid his hands on Helena's shoulders—and she felt them tremble a little. "Miss Vail—Helena," he said, and his voice was full of passionate earnestness now, "I cannot say these things well—only simply. I came back here to take an interest in the work, for I too have it at heart—but I have more than that now—there is you—your dear self. I love you, Helena—you have come into my life until you are everything and all to me. Helena, look up at me—will you marry me, dear? Tell me what I long to hear. Helena, Helena—I love you!"

But Helena did not answer—only very slowly she raised her head. And his hands on her shoulders tightened, and he was drawing her gently toward him. Then he bent his head until it was close to hers, and his breath was upon her cheek as it had been that other night—and the longing to know that it was hers, a caress, pure in its motive, hers, snatched out of all that had gone before that sought to rob her of the right to ever