Slighted love or, At her heart's expense

debt.” “How?” “Give up this fancy of another home for yourself and your mother. Stay with us. There is room in that great house for us all. And she is so happy there in the home that used to be hers. And my mother, too, she will be lonely without the two she loves so well.” “She will have you, her son,” she answered coldly. “True; but your mother is a pleasanter companion, and the day may come, Italy, when--I--shall--marry. Then my time must be given to my bride.” There was silence for a long, long minute. The meaning waves seemed to echo loudly in the girl’s ears: “My bride! my bride!” The pretty, shallow face of her rival rose before her mind’s eye. She thought how Alys would queen it at the great house yonder. Then she crested her head with defiant pride. His keen, earnest eyes should never read her heart, where that cruel thorn of sorrow hid and ached. “I congratulate you on your approaching marriage, Mr. Murray, but that is only another reason why we should go away.” “Why, Italy?” “Because there could never be room enough for your wife and us two. Do you not remember that we were never friendly, Alys Audenreid and I?” “Alys Audenreid, dear, has nothing to do with the matter. No bride of mine can ever oust you from The Lodge.” He took her hand in his and drew her nearer to him. She trembled, but she did not resist. The sunset light on his handsome, eager face showed her something in his eyes that was more than simple friendship. “Have you been thinking I would marry Alys?” he demanded. “Ye-es.” “Was that the reason you have been so cold and cruel to me?” “No.” But Francis Murray laughed softly to himself. Light began to break on his darkness. “Italy, won’t you look at me one moment?” But the long lashes swept the glowing cheeks, and the red lips trembled with intense feeling. He took the other little hand now and drew her closer still, until his broad figure seemed to shield her utterly from the nipping east wind. But neither knew that it was winter then. The summer of love was in their hearts. “Little girl, I fear that you have a very bad memory. Have you forgotten the night we were parted in the water by that terrible accident?” “No--oh, no!” she shuddered. And he leaned over her a little nearer, so near that his breath caressed her glowing cheek. “Do you remember the last words I said to you that night, my little girl?” “I--I----” faltered Italy, in dire confusion, and paused. “You _do_ remember them!” cried he triumphantly. “I called you my love and my darling. How, then, could you think me false to that night? You have known all the while that I loved you.” His eager, impetuous voice died away in a thrilling whisper, but no answer came from the happy girl leaning so near to his heart. “You have known all the while that I loved you,” repeated Francis Murray ardently. “Then why have you been so cold to me? Was it because you could give me no hope? Am I too old at thirty-three to win the heart of a girl like you, barely eighteen? Oh, Italy, speak to me, child! Must I leave you?” The little hand held him back, the low voice sobbed: “Professor Doepkin was so cold to me it made me distrust your love. I thought you meant to ignore the past, and it almost broke my heart.” “I was cruel, dear, but I thought Emmett had won you, after all, and that I was forgotten--even if you had ever cared for me. I hoped you would know me, through all disguises, and I almost despaired because you did not. But Emmett told me lately you had rejected him again, and he was learning to care for Isabel. So I took heart of hope once more. Oh, my darling, will you love me? Will you take my heart and my life?” And the moaning waves echoed tenderly: “My heart and my life?” Oh, the face that she raised to his, so beautiful, so loving, so happy! It was like an angel’s to his devouring eyes. “My love, my bride!” he murmured rapturously, and caught her in his arms, pressing fervent kisses on the face that was so lovely and so happy. And the sun, just sinking to rest below the restless sea, sent one long lance of quivering golden light across the waves, touching with a heavenly benison the dark and golden heads so close together. THE END. No. 1336 of the NEW EAGLE SERIES, entitled, “Madcap Merribel,” by Julia Edwards, is a delightful love story with a rarely charming heroine. Transcriber’s Notes: Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber. This novel was first serialized in the _New York Family Story Paper_ from April 8, 1893 to July 15, 1893. This electronic text is derived from a 1931 paper-covered reprint, no. 1335 in the _New Eagle Series_. The 1931 edition includes advertisements before and after the text of the novel, but this extra material has been omitted here.