"You have something sad, something terrible to
tell me!" he cried. "What is it?"
The rector walked across the room several times, breathing deeply,
and with anguish written on his countenance. Then he took Senator
Cheney's hand and wrung it. "I have an embarrassing announcement to
make to you," he said. "It is something so surprising, so
unexpected, that I am completely unnerved."
"You alarm me, more and more," the senator answered. "What can be
the secret which my frail child has imparted to you that should so
distress you? Speak; it is my right to know."
The rector took another turn about the room, and then came and stood
facing Senator Cheney.
"Your daughter has conceived a strange passion for me," he said in a
low voice. "It is this which has caused her illness, and which she
says will cause her death, if I cannot return it."
"And you?" asked his listener after a moment's silence.
"I? Why, I have never thought of your daughter in any such manner,"
the young man replied. "I have never dreamed of loving her, or
winning her love."
"Then do not marry her," Preston Cheney said quietly. "Marriage
without love is unholy. Even to save life it is unpardonable."
The rector was silent, and walked the room with nervous steps. "I
must go home and think it all out," he said after a time.
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