again, Miss, if I hear anything more. Good night!"
Lizzie got up and lowered the light, and then went back to her sofa by the fire.
Half an hour passed; it went slowly; but it passed. Still lying there in the dark room on the sofa, Lizzie heard a ring at the door-bell, a man's voice and a man's tread in the hall. She rose and went to the lamp. As she turned it up, the parlor-door opened. Bruce came in.
"I was sitting in the dark," said Lizzie; "but when I heard you coming, I raised the light."
"Are you afraid of me?" said Bruce.
"Oh, no! I 'll put it down again. Sit down."
"I saw your friends going out," pursued Bruce; "so I knew I should find you alone. — What are you doing here in the dark?"
"I 've just received very bad news from Mrs. Ford about her son. He 's much worse, and will probably not live."
"Is it possible?"
"I was thinking about that."
"Dear me! Well that 's a sad subject. I 'm told he was a very fine young man."
"He was, — very," said Lizzie.
Bruce was silent awhile. He was a stranger to the young officer, and felt that he had nothing to offer beyond the commonplace expressions of sympathy and surprise. Nor had he exactly the measure of his companion's interest in him.
"If he dies," said Lizzie, "it will be. under great injustice."
"Ah! what do you mean?"
"There was n't a braver man in the army."
"I suppose not."
"And, oh, Mr. Bruce," continued Lizzie, "he was so clever and good and generous! I wish you had known him."
"I wish I had. But what do you mean by injustice? Were these qualities denied him?"
"No indeed! Every one that looked at him could see that he was perfect."
"Where 's the injustice, then? It ought to be enough for him that you should think so highly of him."
"Oh, he knew that," said Lizzie.
Bruce was a little puzzled by his companion's manner. He watched her, as she sat with her cheek on her hand, looking at the fire. There was a long pause. Either they were too friendly or too thoughtful for the silence to be embarrassing. Bruce broke it at last.
"Miss Crowe," said he, "on a certain occasion, some time ago, when you first heard of Mr. Ford's wounds, I offered you my company, with the wish to console you as far as I might for what seemed a considerable shock. It was, perhaps, a bold offer for so new a friend; but, nevertheless, in it even then my heart spoke. You turned me off. Will you let me repeat it? Now, with a better right, will you let me speak out all my heart?"
Lizzie heard this speech, which was delivered in a slow and hesitating tone, without looking up or moving her head, except, perhaps, at the words "turned me off." After Bruce had ceased, she still kept her position.
"You 'll not turn me off now? " added her companion.
She dropped her hand, raised her head, and looked at him a moment: he thought he saw the glow of tears in her eyes. Then she sank back upon the sofa with her face in the shadow of the mantel-piece.
"I don't understand you, Mr. Bruce," said she.
"Ah, Elizabeth! am I such a poor speaker. How shall I make it plain? When I saw your friends leave home half an hour ago, and reflected that you would probably be alone, I determined to go right in and have a talk with you that I 've long been wanting to have. But first I walked half a mile up the road, thinking hard, — thinking how I should say what I had to say. I made up my mind to nothing, but that somehow or other I should say it. I would trust, — I do trust to your frankness, kindness, and sympathy, to a feeling corresponding to my own. Do you un-
