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on his with a serious, penetrating gaze. Childish and inexperienced as she was in many ways, she had all the quick perception of the artist-nature when once her thought was thoroughly aroused; and probably she read and understood all that was passing in his mind—the sudden generous impulse, the conflict of old associations and influences, even the want of real passion, better than he understood himself. For more than a moment she wavered, balanced, almost yielded. He looked so manly, so kind, with something noble in his eyes, and he would be pleased if she yielded to his wishes and threw over her own future for his. Should she throw it over? To him this appeared no sacrifice, but a great advantage offered to the untried and friendless girl. And she knew too well the wrong side of the medal—the hard experience of cares and work, and endless struggle with poverty, of small successes and depressing failures, and fond speculations in hope deferred. Even if she succeeded, as she so often promised herself, what would that success be compared with a home and a woman's happiness? . . . But Love must build his house upon a rock.

“No, Mr. Campbell,” she said at last, very softly but decidedly, withdrawing her hand from his—“it cannot be.”