She could only wonder what there was in her that could attract him.
He was a descendant of one of the oldest families in England--he had a title, he was wealthy, clever, he had every great and good gift--yet he loved her; he stooped from his exalted position to love her, and she, for his own sake, wished to refuse his love.

But she found it difficult.
She sat down by the brook-side, and, perhaps for the first time in her gentle life, a feeling of dissatisfaction rose within her; yet it was not so much that as a longing that she could be different from what she was--a wish that she had been nobly born, endowed with some great gift that would have brought her nearer to him.

How happy she would have been then--how proud to love him--how glad to devote her sweet young life to him! At present it was different; the most precious thing that she could give him--which was her love--would be most prejudicial to him.

And just as that thought came to her, causing the blue eyes to fill with tears, she saw him standing before her.
She was not surprised; he was so completely part and parcel of her thoughts and her life that she would never have felt surprised at seeing him.

He came up to her quietly.
"My darling Madaline, your face is pale, and there are tears in your eyes.