“Percy,” he said, quite humbly, “you must bear with me, dear.  I lose all hope of winning you when I learn these things of you.”

“But you are not sorry, Ross?  I will not write any more if you dislike literary women.”

But he stopped her:  “Dislike it!  I am proud as a king of all your endowments.  But, sweetheart, you said a word just now that is worth all else that you have told me—­a word, I know, you said only half meaning it.  Oh, my little girl, will there ever come a time when, meaning it and out of a full heart, you will say, My love! my love!”

She held him tight a long, long moment, then with one lingering love-kiss on his lips—­her very first—­she said faintly, putting him away from her, “Ross, not now—­wait, my dearest.  Sheldon gave me this to give to you to-night;” and she held out a little worn letter, then buried her face upon his breast and tremblingly waited while he read it.  It ran thus: 

“Sheldon, my cousin, it can never be:  give up all hope for ever.  I kill it now, because it is best you should know the truth.  I almost give up my life, my cousin, when I make my heritage of woe known to you.  You will pity me, Sheldon, when you realize what agony the confession you thus wring from me gives my heart.  But if it cures your passion it is not borne in vain.  I love with an undying love, a faith that knows no change, an endurance that years of neglect have not weakened, that years of cruelty could never change, a man who would laugh to scorn my very name.  I love—­and have loved since I was sixteen years old, until now—­Ross Norval.  Keep my secret.

  “PERCY HASTINGS.”

It was dated four years back.

“Ross, Ross! you know it now!  Oh, my love! my love!”

* * * * *

I will attempt no painting of the effect that confession had upon him.  But after a long, long time she whispered, “I will sing the last verse of your song, dear, which only you shall ever hear.”  And lying on his breast, she sang—­

  “Dear love I thy face above me gleaming
    A sunset radiance gives: 
  Ah, love! thy tones’ sweet cadence dying
    Sings in my heart and lives. 
  Clasped, love, close to thy heart, thy birdling
    Foldeth her wings in peace—­
  Trusts, love! feeling nor cold nor shadow,
    Finding at last her ease,
    From fear a safe release,
      Heart’s love, with thee.”

MARGRET FIELD.

The Victims of Dreams.

My friend Bessie Haines had no mother, but her father was such a very large man that I remember thinking, when I was quite a child, that a kind Providence had intended to make up her loss in that way.  She and I did not live in the same city, but managed to keep up a lively friendship through the medium of correspondence and half-yearly visits.

I was a complete orphan, and my uncle, with whom I lived, was her father’s attached friend.  She had a very happy home, and I was glad to enjoy it with her, particularly when my uncle accompanied me, for then her father and he became absorbed in each other, and left us to our own devices—­not very evil ones, but too childish and trifling to claim the sympathy of such very grave men as they were.