“And now,” she said, making a great effort to regain her self-control, “you must tell me about yourself.  A woman may have her feelings and fancies, and cry over them when she is afraid or alone; that is nothing; it is the way of the world.  It is a man’s fate that is of importance.”

“You must not talk like that, Natalie,” said he gravely.  “Our fate is one.  Without you, I don’t value my life more than this bit of geranium-leaf; with you, life would be worth having.”

“And you must not talk like that either,” she said.  “Your life is valuable to others.  Ah, my dear friend, that is what I have been trying to console myself with of late.  I said, ’Well, if he goes away and does not see me again, will he not be freer?  He has a great work to do; he may have to go away from England for many years; why should he be encumbered with a wife?”

“It was your father, I presume, who made those suggestions to you?” said Brand, regarding her.

“Yes; papa said something like that,” she answered, quite innocently.  “That is what would naturally occur to him; his work has always the first place in his thoughts.  And with you, too; is it not so?”

“No.”

She looked up quickly.

“I will be quite frank with you, Natalie.  You have the first place in my thoughts; I hope you ever will have, while I am a living man.  But cannot I give the Society all the work that is in me equally well, whether I love you or whether I don’t, whether you become my wife or whether you do not?  I have no doubt your father has been talking to you as he has been talking to me.”

She placed her disengaged hand on the top of his, and said, gently,

“My father perhaps does not quite understand you; perhaps he is too anxious.  I, for one, am not anxious—­about that.  Do you know how I trust you, my dearest of friends?  Sometimes I have said to myself, ’I will ask him for a pledge.  I will say to him that he must promise, that he must swear to me, that whatever happens as between him and me, nothing, nothing, nothing in all the world will induce him to give up what he has undertaken;’ but then again I have said to myself, ’No, I can trust him for that.’”

“I think you may, Natalie,” said he, rather absently.  “And yet what could have led me to join such a movement but your own noble spirit—­the glamour of your voice—­the thanks of your eyes?  You put madness into my blood with your singing.”

“Do you call it madness?” she said, with a faint flush in the pale olive face.  “Is it not rather kindness—­is it not justice to others—­the desire to help—­something that the angels in heaven must feel when they look down and see what a great misery there is in the world?”

“I think you are an angel yourself, Natalie,” said he, quite simply, “and that you have come down and got among a lot of people who don’t treat you too well.  However, we must come to the present moment.  You spoke of America; now what do you know about that?”