The Solitary Farm. Fergus Hume

again."

      "Cyril, how can you when I love you so?"

      "Would you love me if you knew of my troubles?"

      "Try me. Try me," she implored, clasping his hand warmly.

      "There are some things which can't be told to a woman," he said sternly.

      "Tell them to a comrade, then. I wish to be your comrade as well as your wife. And I love you so that anything you say will only make me love you the more. Tell me, Cyril, so that I can prove my love."

      "Upon my soul, I believe you'd go to hell with me," said Lister strongly.

      "Yes, I would. I demand, by the love which exists between us, to be told this secret that troubles you so greatly."

      Lister frowned, and meditated. "I cannot tell you everything—yet," he remarked, after a painful pause, "but I can tell you this much, that unless I have one thousand pounds within a week, I can never marry you."

      "One thousand pounds. But for what purpose?"

      "You must not ask me that, Bella," and his mouth closed firmly.

      "'Trust me all in all, or not at all,'" she quoted.

      "Then I trust you not at all."

      "Oh!" She drew back with a cry of pain like a wounded animal.

      In a moment he was on his knees, holding her hands to his beating heart. "My dearest, if I could I would. But I can't, and I am unable just now to give you the reason. Save that I am a journalist, and your devoted lover, you know nothing about me. Later I shall tell you my whole story, and how I am situated. Then you can marry me or not, as you choose."

      "I shall marry you, in any case," she said quickly.

      "Do you think that I am a poor, weak fool, who demands perfection in a man. Whatever your sins may be, to me you are the man I have chosen to be my husband. We are here, in the corn-fields, and you just now called me Ruth. Then, like Ruth, I can say that 'your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.'"

      "Dearest and best," he kissed her ardently, "what have I done to deserve such perfect love? But do not think me so very wicked. It is not myself, so much as another. Then you——"

      "Is it a woman?" she asked, drawing back.

      Lister caught her to his breast again. "No, you jealous angel, it is not a woman. The thousand pounds I must have, to save—but that is neither here nor there. You must think me but a tardy lover not to carry you off, forwith, and——" he rose, with Bella in his arms—"oh, it's impossible!"

      "Do carry me off," she whispered, clinging to him. "Let us have a Sabine wedding. As your wife, you can tell me all your secrets."

      "Bella, Bella, I cannot. I am desperately poor."

      "So am I, and if I marry you my father will leave all his money to my aunt, for he told Mr. Pence so. But what does poverty matter, so long as we love one another with all our hearts and souls."