In this quiet way two days went by, Irving Stanley, quiet, pleasant, gentlemanly, and winning all hearts by his extreme suavity of manner; Hugh, silent, fitful, moody; Alice, artificially gay, and even merry, trying so hard to make up Hugh’s deficiencies, that she led poor Irving astray, and made him honestly believe she might be won.  It was on the morning of the third day that he resolved to end the uncertainty, and know just how she regarded him.  Hugh had gone to Frankfort, he supposed; Mrs. Worthington was suffering from a nervous headache, while Densie, as usual, sat in her own room, mostly silent, but occasionally whispering to herself, “White nigger, white nigger—­that’s me!” Apparently it was the best opportunity he could have, and joining Alice in the large, cool parlor, he seated himself beside her, and with the thought that nothing was gained by waiting, plunged at once into his subject.

“Alice,” he began, “I must leave here to-morrow, and the business on which I came is not yet transacted.  Can’t you guess what it is?  Has not my manner told you why I came to Kentucky?”

Alice was far too truthful to affect ignorance, and though it cost her a most painful effort to do so, she answered, frankly:  “I think I can guess.”

“And you will not tell me no?” Irving said, involuntarily winding his arm around her, and drawing her drooping head nearer to him.

Just then a shadow fell upon them, but neither noticed it, or dreamed of the tall form passing the window and pausing long enough to see Irving Stanley’s arm around Alice’s neck, to hear Irving Stanley as he continued:  “Darling Alice, you will be my wife?”

The rest was lost to Hugh, who had not yet started for Frankfort, as Irving supposed.  With every faculty paralyzed save that of locomotion, he hurried away to where Rocket stood waiting for him, and mounting his pet, went dashing across the fields, conscious of nothing save that Golden Hair was lost forever.  In his rapid walk down the piazza he had not observed Old Sam, seated in the door, nor heard the mumbled words, “Poor Massa Hugh!  I’se berry sorry for him, berry!  I kinder thought, ‘fore t’other chap comed, Miss Ellis was hankerin’ after him a little.  Poor Massa Hugh!”

Old Sam, like Hugh, had heard Irving Stanley’s impassioned words, for the window nearby was opened wide; he had seen, too, the deadly pallor on Hugh’s face, and how for an instant he staggered, as from a blow, covering his eyes with his hands and whispering as he passed the negro, “Oh, Alice, Golden Hair!”

All this Sam had witnessed, and in his sympathy for “Massa Hugh” he failed to hear the rest of Irving’s wooing, or Alice’s low-spoken answer.  She could not be Irving Stanley’s wife.  She made him understand that, and then added, sadly:  “I am sorry I cannot love you as I ought, for I well know the meed of gratitude I owe to one who saved my life, and I have wanted so much to thank you, only you did not seem to remember me at all.”