When she reached the sitting-room she gave a start of pleasure.  A young man rose at her entrance, and advanced with both hands extended—­a tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired young man, with a frank and kindly countenance, now lit up with the animation of pleasure.  He seemed about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old.  His face was of the type one instinctively associates with intellect and character, and it gave the impression, besides, of that intangible something which we call race.  He was neatly and carefully dressed, though his clothing was not without indications that he found it necessary or expedient to practice economy.

“Good-evening, Clara,” he said, taking her hands in his; “I ’ve been waiting for you five minutes.  I supposed you would be in, but if you had been a moment later I was going to the hall to look you up.  You seem tired to-night,” he added, drawing her nearer to him and scanning her features at short range.  “This work is too hard; you are not fitted for it.  When are you going to give it up?”

“The season is almost over,” she answered, “and then I shall stop for the summer.”

He drew her closer still and kissed her lovingly.  “Tell me, Clara,” he said, looking down into her face,—­he was at least a foot taller than she,—­“when I am to have my answer.”

“Will you take the answer you can get to-night?” she asked with a wan smile.

“I will take but one answer, Clara.  But do not make me wait too long for that.  Why, just think of it!  I have known you for six months.”

“That is an extremely long time,” said Clara, as they sat down side by side.

“It has been an age,” he rejoined.  “For a fortnight of it, too, which seems longer than all the rest, I have been waiting for my answer.  I am turning gray under the suspense.  Seriously, Clara dear, what shall it be? or rather, when shall it be? for to the other question there is but one answer possible.”

He looked into her eyes, which slowly filled with tears.  She repulsed him gently as he bent over to kiss them away.

“You know I love you, John, and why I do not say what you wish.  You must give me a little more time to make up my mind before I can consent to burden you with a nameless wife, one who does not know who her mother was”——­

“She was a good woman, and beautiful, if you are at all like her.”

“Or her father”——­

“He was a gentleman and a scholar, if you inherited from him your mind or your manners.”

“It is good of you to say that, and I try to believe it.  But it is a serious matter; it is a dreadful thing to have no name.”

“You are known by a worthy one, which was freely given you, and is legally yours.”

“I know—­and I am grateful for it.  After all, though, it is not my real name; and since I have learned that it was not, it seems like a garment—­something external, accessory, and not a part of myself.  It does not mean what one’s own name would signify.”