Tom loved Susan now with a calm, concentrated purpose of making her his wife. There was in his feeling for her none of the impatience of a fiery passion. He would not have rebelled had he been told that she would not be his for years, so that he had been sure of her at last. He had gradually taken his position with her as her constant attendant, protector, adviser. In a myriad of ways he had made himself part of her daily life, and this, too, without once coming on the ordinary lover's ground of gifts, attentions, compliments. He never even sent her flowers; he never even said a flattering thing to, or of, her. He simply sat by her side, looked at her, and took care of her. How Edward Balloure chafed at all this is easy to imagine. When he met Tom in Sues presence,—and he was seldom out of it except in business hours,—he eyed him sometimes fiercely, sometimes almost imploringly. Tom had for Edward Balloure but one look, but one tone,—that of concealed contempt; the barest civility was all he could wrench from himself for the man whom he knew to be base, but whom Susan reverenced and loved. And Susan! It must be a more skillful pen than mine which could analyze the conflicting emotions which filled Susan's heart now. Professor Balloure occupied her imagination to a greater degree than she knew. She idealized him, and then let her thoughts dwell on the ideal she had made. She was full of sentiment about him, she leaned on his intellect, sought his
