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“Oh yea; quite free, Mr, Millborne,” she said, somewhat surprised.

Then I will tell you why I have come. Twenty years ago I promised to make yoa my wife, and I am here to fulfil that promise. Heaven forgive my tardiness!”

Her surprise was increased, but she was not agitated. She seemed to become gloomy, disapproving.

“I could not entertain such an idea at this time of life,” she said, after a moment or two. “It would complicate matters too greatly. I have a very fair income, and require no help of any sort. I have no wish to marry, ... What could have induced you to come on sach an errand now? It seems quite extraordinary, if I may say so.”

It must—I dare aay it does,” Millborne replied, vaguely; “and I must tell you that impulee—I mean in the sense of passion—has little to do with it. I wish to marry you, Leonora; I much desire to marry you. But it is an affair of conscience, a case of fulfilment. I promised you, and it was dishonorable of me to go away. I want to remove that sense of dishonor before I die. No doubt we might get to love each other as warmly as we did in old times.”

She dubiously shook her head. “I appreciate your motives, Mr. Millborne ; but you must consider my position, and you will see that, short of the personal wish to marry, which I don’t feel, there is no reason why I should change my state, even though by go doing I should eaga your conscience. My position in this town is a respected one; I have built it up by my own hard labors, and, in short, I don’t wish to alter it. My daughter, too, is just on the verge of an engagement to be married to a young man who will make her an excellent husband. It will be in every way a desirable match for her. He is down-stairs now.”