“And I trusted you so; O Helen, I can never forgive you.”

I murmured, miserably, for I felt myself in that moment really guilty,—­

“What makes you think she loves him?”

“You cannot deceive me, Helen,” he replied.  “Do not torture me and yourself by trying.  Tell me now, how long this ‘Edward’ has been sitting by her lounge.  Tell me all.”

Then I told him all.  It was not much.  He had seen more that evening, and so had I, than had ever existed before.  His presence had been the one element which had suddenly defined that which before had been hardly recognized.

He was very quiet after the first moment of bitterness, and asked me to forgive his impatient words.  When he left me he said,—­

“I cannot see clearly what I ought to do.  Annie’s happiness is my only aim.  If this boy can create it, and I cannot—­but he cannot:  she was as utterly mine as it is possible for a woman to be.  You none of you knew how utterly!  Oh, my God, what shall I do!” and he walked away feebly and slowly like an old man of seventy.

The next day Aunt Ann sent for me to come to her.  I found her in great distress.  George had returned to the house after leaving me, and had had almost a stormy interview with my uncle.  He insisted upon asking Annie at once to be his wife; making no reference to the past, but appearing at once as her suitor.  My uncle could not forbid it, for he recognized George’s right, and he sympathized in his suffering.  But his terror was insupportable at the thought of having Annie agitated, and of the possible results which might follow.  He implored George to wait at least a few weeks.

“What! and see that young lover at my wife’s feet every night!” said George, fiercely.  “No!  I will risk all, lose all, if need be.  I have been held back long enough,” and he had gone directly from my uncle’s room to Annie herself.

In a short time Annie had come to her mother in a perfect passion of weeping, and told her that Cousin George had asked her to be his wife; and that she had never dreamed of such a thing; and she thought he was very unkind to be so angry with her; how could she have supposed he cared for her in that way, when he had been like her elder brother all his life.

“Why, he seems almost as old as papa,” said poor Annie, sobbing and crying, “and he ought to have known that I should not kiss him and put my arms around him if—­if”—­she could not explain; but she knew!

Annie had gone to her own room, ill.  My aunt and I sat together in the library silently crying; we were wretched.  “Oh, if George would only have waited,” said Aunt Ann.

“I think it would have made no difference, aunty,” said I.

“No, I am afraid not,” replied she, and each knew that the other was thinking of Edward Neal.

George Ware left town the next day.  He sent me a short note.  He could not see any one, he said, and begged me to give a farewell kiss for him to “the sweet mother of my Annie.  For mine she is, and will be in heaven, though she will be the wife of Edward Neal on earth.”