The Rector of St. Marks

"And I am to marry Arthur," Lucy had said again, but this time there

was no sign that she was understood, and that afternoon she went back

to Hanover loaded with testaments for the children of St. Mark's, and

new books for the Sunday-school, and, accompanied by Valencia, who,

having had a serious difference with her mistress, Mrs. Meredith,

offered her services to Lucy, and was at once accepted.

That was near the middle of October; now it was towards the last, and

Anna was so much better that she sat up for an hour or more, and

listened with some degree of interest to what Mrs. Meredith told her

of the days when she lay so unconscious of all that was passing around

her, never even heeding the kindly voice of Thornton Hastings, who,

more than once, had stood by her pillow with his hand on her feverish

brow, and whose thoughtfulness was visible in the choice bouquets he

sent each day, with notes of anxious inquiry when he did not come

himself.

Anna had not seen him yet since her convalescence. She would rather

not see any one until strong enough to talk, she said; and so Thornton

waited patiently for the interview she had promised him when she was

stronger, but every day he sent her fruit and flowers, and books of

prints which he thought would interest her, and which always made her

cheeks grow hot and her heart beat regretfully, for she thought of the

answer she must give him when he came, and she shrank from wounding

him.

"He is too good, too noble to have an unwilling wife," she said, but

that did not make it the less hard to tell him so, and when at last

she was well enough to see him, she waited his coming nervously,

starting when she heard his step, and trembling like a leaf as he drew

near her chair. It was a very thin, wasted hand which he took in his,

holding it for a moment between his own, and then laying it gently

back upon her lap.

He had come for the answer to a question put six weeks before, and

Anna gave it to him.

Kindly, considerately, but decidedly, she told him she could not be

his wife, simply because she did not love him as he ought to be loved.

"It is nothing personal," she said, working nervously at the heavy

fringe of her shawl. "I respect you more than any man I ever knew, but

one, and had I met you years ago before--before----"

"I understand you," Thornton said, coming to her aid. "You have tried

to love me, but cannot, because your affections are given to another."

Anna bowed her head in silence. Then after a moment she continued: "You must forgive me, Mr. Hastings, for not telling you this at once.

I did not know then but I could love you--at least I meant to try, for

you see, this other one----"