It is the night of Mabel Steyne's ball. In the library at Chetwoode they are almost every one assembled, except Lilian, and Florence Beauchamp, and Mr. Musgrave, whose dressing occupies a considerable part of his life, and who is still sufficiently young to find pleasure in it.

Lady Chetwoode in gray satin is looking charming; Cecilia, lovely, in the palest shade of blue. She is standing at a table somewhat apart, conversing with Cyril, who is fastening a bracelet upon one of her arms. Guy and Archibald are carrying on a desultory conversation.

And now the door opens, and Lilian comes in. For the first time for a whole year she has quite discarded mourning to-night, and is dressed in pure white. Some snowdrops are thrown carelessly among the folds of the tulle that covers and softens her silk gown; a tiny spray of the same flower lies nestling in her hair.

She appears more fairy-like, more child-like and sweeter than ever, as she advances into the room, with a pretty consciousness of her own beauty, that sits charmingly upon her. She is a perfect little vision of loveliness, and is tenderly aware of the fact. Her neck is fair, her shoulders rounded and kissable as an infant's; her eyes are gleaming, her lips apart and smiling; her sunny hair, that is never quite as smooth as other people's, lies in rippling coils upon her head, while across her forehead a few short rebellious love-locks wander.

Seeing her, Sir Guy and Chesney are filled with a simultaneous longing to take her in their arms and embrace her then and there.

Sweeping past Sir Guy, as though he is invisible, she goes on, happy, radiant toward Lady Chetwoode. She is in her airiest mood, and has evidently cast behind her all petty dÉsagrÉments, being bent on enjoying life to its fullest for this one night at least.

"Is not my dress charming, auntie? does it not become me?" she asks, with the utmost naÏvetÉ, casting a backward glance over her shoulder at her snowy train.

"It does, indeed. Let me congratulate you, darling," says Lady Chetwoode to her favorite: "it is really exquisite."

"Lovely as its wearer," says Archibald, with a suppressed sigh.

"Pouf!" says Lilian, gayly: "what a simile! It is a rudeness; who dares compare me with a paltry gown? A tenth part as lovely, you mean. How refractory this button is!" holding out to him a rounded arm to have the twelfth button of her glove fastened; "try can you do it for me?"

Here Taffy enters, and is apparently struck with exaggerated admiration as he beholds her.

"Ma conscience!" he says, in the words of the famous Dominie, "what a little swell we are! Titania, my dear, permit me to compliment you on the success you are sure to have. Monsieur Worth has excelled himself! Really, you are very nearly pretty. You'll have a good time of it to-night, I shouldn't wonder."

"I hope so," gladly; "I can hardly keep my feet quiet, I do so long to dance. And so you admire me?"

"Intensely. As a tribute to your beauty, I think I shall give you a kiss."

"Not for worlds," exclaims she, retreating hastily. "I know your embraces of old. Do let me take my flowers and tulle uncrushed to Mabel's, or I shall complain of you to her, and so spoil your evening."

"I am glad to see you have recovered your usual spirits," maliciously: "this morning you were nowhere. I could not get a word out of you. Ever since yesterday, when you were disappointed about your run, you have been in 'doleful dumps.' All day you looked as though you thought there was 'nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.' You seemed to revel in it."

"Perhaps I was afraid to encourage you. Once set going, you know you cannot stop," says Lilian, laughing, while two red spots, caused by his random remark, rise and burn in her cheeks.

"We are late, are we not?" says Florence, entering at this moment; and as Florence never errs, Archibald instantly gives his arm to Lady Chetwoode and takes her down to the carriage. Taffy, who has already opened an animated conversation with Miss Beauchamp on the horrors of square dances, accompanies her; Cyril disappears with Cecilia, and Lilian is left alone in the library with Sir Guy.

Curving her body gracefully, Lilian gathers up with slow nonchalance her long train, and, without bestowing a glance upon Guy, who is silently waiting to escort her to the smaller brougham, goes up to a mirror to take a last lingering survey of her own bewitching image. Then she calmly smooths down her glove, then refastens a bracelet that has come undone, while he, with a bored expression on his face, waits impatiently.

By this, Archibald, who has had ample time to put Lady Chetwoode in her carriage and come all the way back to find a fan forgotten by Miss Beauchamp, re-enters the room.

Lilian beams upon him directly.

"Good Archie," she says, sweetly, "you have returned just in time. There was positively nobody to take poor little me to the brougham." She slips her hand beneath his arm, and walks past Sir Guy composedly, with laughing friendly eyes uplifted to her cousin's.

* * * * * * *

The ball is at its height. The first small hour of morning has sounded. The band is playing dreamily, sweetly; flowers are nodding everywhere, some emitting a dying fragrance, others still fresh and sweet as when first plucked. Afar off the faint splashing of the fountains in the conservatories echoes tremulously, full of cool imaginings, through the warm air. Music and laughter and mirth—real and unreal—are mixed together in one harmonious whole.

Mrs. Steyne has now an unaffected smile upon her face, being assured her ball is an undeniable success, and is allowing herself to be amused by Taffy, who is standing close beside her.

Tom Steyne, who, like Sir Charles Coldstream, is "thirty-three and used up," is in a corner, silently miserable, suffering himself to be flirted at by a gay young thing of forty. He has been making despairing signs to Taffy to come to his assistance, for the past five minutes, which signals of distress that young gentleman basely declines to see.

Every one is busy asking who Mrs. Arlington can be, and, as nobody knows, everybody undertakes to tell his or her neighbor "all about her." And by this time every one is aware she is enormously rich, the widow of an Indian nabob, from whom she was divorced on account of some "fi-fi story, my dear, that is never mentioned now," and that she is ever so many years older than she really looks; "painting is brought to such perfection nowadays!"

All night long Sir Guy has not asked Lilian to dance; he has held himself aloof from her, never even allowing his glance to stray in her direction, although no smallest grace, no faintest coquetry, of hers has escaped his notice. To him the whole evening has been a miserable failure. He has danced, laughed, flirted a good deal, "as is his nature to,"—more particularly with Florence,—but he has been systematically wretched all through.

Lilian and Archibald have been inseparable. She has danced with him, in defiance of all decent rules, dance after dance, even throwing over some engagements to continue her mad encouragement of him. She has noted Sir Guy's attention to his cousin, and, noting (although in her heart she scarcely believes in it), has grown a little reckless as to what judgment people may form of her evident appreciation of Chesney's society.

There is indeed a memorable five minutes when she absolutely deliberates as to whether she will or will not accept her cousin's hand, and so give herself a way to escape from Sir Guy's dreaded displeasure. But, while deliberating, she quite forgets the terrible disappointment she is laying up in store for him, who has neither thought, nor eyes, nor words, for any one but her. Being the undisputed belle of the evening, she naturally comes in for a heavy share of attention, and, be sure, does not altogether escape unkind comment.

"Oh, poor Tom! Do look at Tom and that fearful Miss Dumaresque," says Mrs. Steyne, who just at this moment discovers the corner where Tom is doing his utmost to "suffer and be strong." It is, however, a miserable attempt, as he is visibly depressed and plainly on the point of giving way altogether. "Somebody must go to his succor," says Mabel, with decision: "the question is, who? You, my dear Taffy, I think."

"Not I," says Taffy; "please, dear Mrs. Steyne, do not afflict me so far. I couldn't, indeed. I am very dreadfully afraid of Miss Dumaresque; besides, I never pity Tom even when in his worst scrapes. We all know"—sentimentally—"he is the happiest man alive; when he does fall in for his bad quarter of an hour, why not let him endure it like another? And he is rather in a hat, now, isn't he?" taking an evident keen delight in Mr. Steyne's misfortunes. "I wouldn't be in his shoes for a good deal. He looks as if he was going to cry. The fact is, the gods have pampered him so much, that it is a shame not to let him know for a few minutes what real distress means."

"But what if he should die!" reproachfully: "one so unaccustomed to adversity as Tom would be very likely to sink under it. He looks half dead already! Mark the hunted expression in his poor dear eyes."

"I wish you would mark the forlorn and dejected expression in other people's eyes," in an injured tone; "but all that, of course, goes for nothing."

"In yours, do you mean?" with exaggerated sympathy. "My dear boy, have you a secret sorrow? Does concealment, like that nasty worm, prey upon you? I should be unhappy forever if I could bring myself to think so."

"Then don't think so; come, let us finish this waltz, and forget that lucky fellow in the corner."

"What! you would have me trip it on the light fantastic toe while Tom is enduring torment? Never! Whatever I may do in prosperity, in adversity I 'never will desert Mr. Micawber.'"

"I vow I think you are jealous of that antiquated though still frisky damsel," says Taffy, ready to explode with laughter at the bare idea, as he watches the frisky one's attempt at subjugating the hapless Tom.

"You have discovered my hidden fear," replies Mabel, laughing, too: "forgive my weakness. There are moments when even the strongest break down! Wait here patiently for me, and I have no doubt with a little skill I shall be able to deliver him."

At one side of the ball-room, close to an upper window, is a recess, dimly lit, and partially curtained, in which it is possible for two or three to stand without letting outsiders be aware of their vicinity: into this nook Lilian and Archibald have just withdrawn, she having confessed to a faint sense of fatigue. The sweet lingering notes of the waltz "Geliebt und Verloren" are saddening the air; now they swell, now faint, now almost die out altogether, only to rise again full of pathetic meaning.

"How charming it is to be here!" says Lilian, sinking into a cushioned seat with a sigh of relief, "apart from every one, and yet so near; to watch their different expressions, and speculate upon their secret feelings, without appearing rude: do you not think so? Do you like being here?"

"Yes, I like being here with you,"—or anywhere else, he might have added, without deviating from the truth.

At this moment Guy, who is not dancing, happens to saunter up, and lean against the curtains of the window close to their hiding-place, totally unconscious of their presence. From where she is sitting Lilian can distinctly see him, herself unseen. He looks moody, and is evidently enchanted with the flavor of his blonde moustache. He is scarcely noticeable from where he stands, so that when two men come leisurely up to the very mouth of the retreat, and dispose of themselves luxuriously by leaning all their weight upon the frail pillars against which the curtains hang, they do not perceive him.

One is Harry Bellair, who has apparently been having a good many suppers; the other is his friend.

Mr. Bellair's friend is not as handsome as he might be. There is a want of jaw, and a general lightness about him (not of demeanor: far be it from me to hint at that!) that at a first glance is positively startling. One hardly knows where his flesh ends or his hair begins, while his eyes are a marvel in themselves, making the beholder wonder how much paler they can get without becoming pure white. His moustache is of the vaguest tints, so vague that until acquaintance ripens one is unaware of its existence. Altogether, he is excellently bleached.

To-night, to add to his manifold attractions, he appears all shirt-front and white tie, with very little waistcoat to speak of. In his left and palest optic is the inevitable eyeglass, in which he is supposed by his intimates to sleep, as never yet has human being (except perhaps his mamma in the earlier scenes of his existence) seen him without it. In spite of all this, however, he looks mild, and very harmless.

"She is awfully lovely," says Mr. Bellair, evidently continuing a conversation, and saying it with an audible sigh; "quite too lovely for me."

"You seem fetched," says his friend, directing a pale but feeling ray upon him through the beloved glass.

"I am, I confess it," says Mr. Bellair, effusively; "I adore her, and that's a fact: but she would not look at me. She's in love with her cousin,—Chesney, you know,—and they're to be married straight off the reel, next month, I think—or that."

"Hah!" says the friend. "She's good to look at, do you know, and rather uncommon style, in spite of her yellow hair. She's a ward of Chetwoode's, isn't she? Always heard he was awfully Épris there."

By this time Lilian is crimson, and Archibald hardly less so, though he is distinctly conscious of a desire to laugh; Lilian's eyes are riveted on Sir Guy, who has grown very pale and has turned a frowning brow upon these luckless young men.

"Not a bit of it," says Mr. Bellair, "at least now. He was, I believe, but she bowled him over in a couple of months and laughed at him afterward. No, Chesney is the white-headed boy with her. Not that I see much in him myself," discontentedly.

"Sour-looking beggar," rejoins the friend, with kind sympathy.

It is growing tremendously jolly for the listeners. Lilian turns a pained, beseeching glance upon Archibald, who returns the glance, but declares by gesture his inability to do anything. He is still secretly amused, and not being able from his point of vantage to see Chetwoode, is scarcely as confused as Lilian. Should he now stir, and walk out of his place of concealment with Miss Chesney, he would only cover with shame the unsuspecting gossips and make two enemies for life, without doing any good.

Chetwoode is in the same condition, but though angry and bitterly stung by their words, hardly cares to resent them, being utterly unaware of Lilian's eyes, which are bent upon him. He waits impatiently for the moment when Mr. Bellair and his "fat friend" may choose to move on. Did he know who was so close to him, watching every expression of his face, impatience might have passed all bounds. As it is, a few chance remarks matter little to him.

But Mr. Bellair's friend has yet something else to say.

"Fine girl, Miss Beauchamp," says this youth, languidly; "immensely good form, and that. Looks like a goddess."

"There's a lot of her, if you mean that. But she's too nosy," says Mr. Bellair, grumpily, a sense of injury full upon him. His own nose is of the charming curt and simple order: his "friends in council" (who might be more select) are wont to call it playfully a "spud." "Far too nosy! I hate a woman all nose! makes her look so like a mope."

"You've been getting a snubbing there," says his friend, this time unfeelingly and with an inhuman chuckle.

"I have," valiantly: "she has too much of the goddess about her for my fancy: choke-full of dignity and airs, you know, and all that sort of rubbish. It don't go down, I take it, in the long run. It's as much as she can do to say 'how d'ye do' to you, and she looks a fellow up and down half a dozen times before she gives him a waltz. You don't catch me inviting her to the 'mazy dance' again in a hurry. I hate affectation. I wouldn't marry that girl for untold gold."

"She wouldn't have you," says his friend, with a repetition of the unpleasant chuckle.

"Maybe she wouldn't," replies Mr. Bellair, rather hurt. "Anyhow, she is not to be named in the same day with Miss Chesney. I suppose you know she is engaged to Chetwoode, so you needn't get spoony on her," viciously; "it is quite an old affair, begun in the cradle, I believe, and kept up ever since: never can understand that sort of thing myself; would quite as soon marry my sister. But all men aren't alike."

"No, they aren't," says the friend, with conviction. "Why don't he marry her, though? He must be tired of looking at her."

"He funks it, that's what it is," says Mr. Bellair, "and no wonder; after seeing Miss Chesney he must feel rather discontented with his choice. Ah!"—with a sigh warranted to blow out the largest wax candle,—"there's a girl for you if you like!"

"Don't weep over it, old boy, at least here; you'll be seen," says his friend, jovially, with odious want of sympathy; after which they are pleased to remove themselves and their opinions to another part of the room.

When they have gone, Lilian, who has been turning white and red at intervals all through the discussion, remains motionless, her eyes still fixed on Chetwoode. She does not heed Archibald's remark, so earnestly is she regarding her guardian. Can it be true what they have just said, that he, Sir Guy, has been for years engaged to Florence? At certain moments such a thought has crossed her own mind, but never until to-night has she heard it spoken of.

Chetwoode, who has moved, comes a little nearer to where she is standing, and pauses there, compelled to it by a pressure in the crowd.

"With what taste do they accredit me!" he says, half aloud, with a rather pale smile and a slight curl of his short upper lip, discernible even beneath his drooping moustache. His eyes are directed toward Florence, who is standing, carrying on a lifeless flirtation at a little distance from him; there is distaste in every line of his face, and Lilian, marking it, draws a long breath, and lets the smile return to her mobile lips.

"Was Chetwoode there all the time?" asks Archibald, aghast.

"Yes: was it not horrible?" replies she, half laughing. "Poor Mr. Bellair! I had no idea I had done so much mischief."

The hours are growing older, Lady Chetwoode is growing tired. Already with the utmost craftiness has she concealed five distinct yawns, and begins to think with lingering fondness of eider-down and bedroom fires.

Florence, too, who is sitting near her, and who is ever careful not to overdo the thing, is longing for home, being always anxious to husband as far as possible her waning youth and beauty.

"Lilian, dearest, I think you must come home now," Lady Chetwoode says, tapping the girl's white arms, as she stops close to her in the interval of a dance.

"So soon, auntie!" says Lilian, with dismay.

She is dancing with a very good-looking guardsman, who early in the evening did homage to her charms, and who ever since has been growing worse and worse; by this time he is very bad indeed, and scorns to look at any one in the room except Miss Chesney, who, to confess the truth, has been coquetting with him unremittingly for the past half-hour, without noticing, or at least appearing to notice, Archibald's black looks or Sir Guy's averted ones.

At Lady Chetwoode's words, the devoted guardsman turns an imploring glance upon his lovely partner, that fills her (she is kind-hearted) with the liveliest compassion. Yes, she will make one last effort, if only to save him from mental suicide.

"Dear auntie, if you love me, 'fly not yet,'" she says, pathetically. "It is so long since I have danced, and"—with the faintest, fleetest glance at the guardsman—"I am enjoying myself so much."

"Lady Chetwoode, it can't be done," interposes Tom Steyne, who is standing by: "Miss Chesney has promised me the next dance, and I am living in the expectation of it. At my time of life I have noticed a tendency on the part of beauty to rather shun my attentions; Miss Chesney's condescension, therefore, has filled me with joy. She must wait a little longer: I refuse to resign my dance with the belle of the evening."

"Go and finish your dance, child: I will arrange with auntie," says Mabel, kindly; whereupon Lilian floats away gladly in the arms of her warrior, leaving Mrs. Steyne to settle matters.

"You shall go home, dear, with Florence, because you are tired, and Cyril and his exceedingly beautiful fiancÉe shall go with you; leave the small night brougham for Lilian, and Guy can take her home. I shan't keep her beyond another hour, and I shall see that she is well wrapped up."

So it arranges itself; and by and by, when an hour has passed away, Lilian and Guy discover to their horror they are in for a tÊte-À-tÊte drive to Chetwoode.

They bid good-bye to the unconscious Mabel, and, silently entering the brougham, are presently driving swiftly through the fresh cool air.

"Are you quite comfortable?" Guy asks, as in duty bound, very stiffly.

"Quite, thank you," replies she, even more stiffly; after which outbreak of politeness "silence reigns supreme."

When a good half-mile has been traversed, Guy, who is secretly filled with wonder at the extreme taciturnity of his usually lively companion, so far descends from his pedestal of pride as to turn his head cautiously in her direction: to his utter amazement, he finds she has fallen fast asleep!

The excitement and fatigue of dancing, to which she has been so long unaccustomed, have overpowered her, and, like a tired child as she is, she has given way to restful slumber. Her pale blue cashmere has fallen a little to one side so that a white arm, soft and round as a baby's, can be seen in all the abandon of sleep, naked beside her, the hand half closed like a little curled shell.

Not yet quite convinced that her slumber is real, Guy lays his hand gently upon hers, but at the touch she makes no movement: no smallest ripple of consciousness crosses her face. In the faint light of the lamp he regards her curiously, and wonders, with a pang, how the little fury of a few hours ago can look so angelic now. At this moment, as he watches her, all the anger that has lain in his heart for her melts, vanishes, never to return.

Then he sees her attitude is uncomfortable: her face is very pale, her head is thrown too much back, a little troubled sigh escapes her. He thinks, or at least tries to think,—let not me be the one to judge him,—she will have unhappy dreams if she continues much longer in her present position. Poor child! she is quite worn out. Perhaps he could manage to raise her in a degree, without disturbing her reviving repose.

Slipping his arm gently round her, he lifts her a little, and draws her somewhat nearer to him. So gently does he move her, that Lilian, who is indeed fatigued, and absolutely tired out with her exertions of the evening, never awakes, but lets her heavy, sleepy little head drop over to the other side, down upon Chetwoode's shoulder.

Guy does not stir. After all, what does it matter? she is easier so, and it can hurt neither of them; she never has been, she never will be, anything to him; in all probability she will marry her cousin. At this point he stops and thinks about her treatment of that handsome guardsman, and meditates deeply thereon. To him she is a mystery, a lovely riddle yet unsolved; but with his arm round her, and her face so near his own, he is conscious of feeling an irrepressible gladness. A thrill of happiness, the only touch of it he has known for many days, fills his heart, while with it is a bitter regret that chills it at its birth.

The carriage rattles over some unusually large stone, and Lilian awakes. At first an excessive sense of drowsiness dulls her perception, and then, all at once, it flashes across her mind that she has been asleep, and that now she is encircled, supported by Guy's arm. Even in the friendly darkness a warm flush suffuses her face, born half of quick indignation, half of shame. Raising herself hastily, she draws back from his embrace, and glances up at him with open surprise.

"You are awake?" says Guy, quietly; he has relaxed his hold, but still has not altogether withdrawn his support. As their eyes meet in the uncertain flickering light that comes to them from outside, she sees so much sadness, so much tenderness in his, that her anger is instantly disarmed. Still, she moves yet a little farther from him, while forgetting to make any reply.

"Are you uncomfortable?" asks he, slowly, as though there is nothing out of the common in his sitting thus with his arm round her, and as though a mere sense of discomfort can be the only reason for her objection to it. He does not make the slightest effort to detain her, but still lets her feel his nearness.

"No," replies Miss Chesney, somewhat troubled; "it is not that, only——"

"Then I think you had better stay as you are. You are very tired, I can see, and this carriage is not the easiest in the world."

With gentle boldness he replaces the offending arm in its old position, and wisely refrains from further speech.

Lilian is confounded. She makes no effort to release herself, being filled with amazement at the extraordinary change in his manner, and, perhaps, wholly glad of it. Has he forgiven her? Has he repented him of his stern looks and cold avoidance? All night long he has shunned her persistently, has apparently been unaware of her presence; and now there is something in his tone, in his touch, that betrays to her what sets her heart beating treacherously.

Presently Guy becomes aware of this fact, and finding encouragement in the thought that she has not again repulsed him, says, softly:

"Were you frightened when you awoke?"

"Yes, a little."

"You are not frightened now?"

"No, not now. At first, on waking, I started to find myself here."

"Here," may mean the carriage, or her resting-place, or anything.

After a short pause:

"Sir Guy,"—tremulously.

"Yes."

"You remember all that happened the night before last?"

"I do," slowly.

"I have wanted ever since to tell you how sorry I am for it all, to beg your pardon, to ask you to——" she stops, afraid to trust her voice further, because of some little troublesome thing that rises in her throat and threatens to make itself heard.

"I don't want you to beg my pardon," says Guy, hastily, in a pained tone. "If I had not provoked you, it would never have happened. Lilian, promise me you will think no more about it."

"Think about it! I shall never cease thinking about it. It was horrible, it was shameful of me. I must have gone mad, I think. Even now, to remember it makes me blush afresh. I am glad it is dark,"—with a little nervous laugh,—"because you cannot see my face. It is burning."

"Is it?" tenderly. With gentle fingers he touches her soft cheek, and finds it is indeed, as she has said, "burning." He discovers something else also,—tears quite wet upon it.

"You are crying, child," he says, startled, distressed.

"Am I? No wonder. I ought to suffer for my hateful conduct toward you. I shall never forgive myself."

"Nonsense!" angrily. "Why should you cry about such a trifle? I won't have it. It makes me miserable to know any thought of me can cause you a tear."

"I cry"—with a heavy sob—"because I fear you will never think well of me again. I have lost your good opinion, if indeed"—sadly—"I ever had it. You must think badly of me."

"I do not," returns he, with an accent that is almost regret. "I wish I could. It matters little what you do, I shall never think of you but as the dearest and sweetest girl I ever met. In that"—with a sigh—"lies my misfortune."

"Not think badly of me! and yet you called me a flirt! Am I a flirt?"

Chetwoode hesitates, but only for a minute; then he says, decidedly, though gently:

"Perhaps not a flirt, but certainly a coquette. Do not be angry with me for saying so. Think how you passed this one evening. First remember the earlier part of it, and then your cruel encouragement of the luckless guardsman."

"But the people I wanted to dance with wouldn't ask me to dance," says Lilian, reproachfully, "and what was I to do? I did not care for that stupid Captain Monk: he was handsome, but insufferably slow, and—and—I don't believe I cared for any one."

"What! not even for——" He pauses. Not now, not at this moment, when for a sweet though perhaps mad time she seems so near to him in thought and feeling, can he introduce his rival's name. Unconsciously he tightens his arm round her, and, emboldened by the softness of her manner, smooths back from her forehead the few golden hairs that have wandered there without their mistress's will.

Lilian is silent, and strangely, unutterably happy.

"I wish we could be always friends," she says, wistfully, after a little eloquent pause.

"So do I,"—mournfully,—"but I know we never shall be."

"That is a very unkind speech, is it not? At least"—slipping five warm little fingers into his disengaged hand—"I shall always be a friend of yours, and glad of every smallest thing that may give you happiness."

"You say all this now, and yet to-morrow,"—bending to look at her in the ungenerous light,—"to-morrow you may tell me again that you 'hate me.'"

"If I do,"—quickly,—"you must not believe me. I have a wretched temper, and I lost it completely when I said that the other night. I did not mean it. I do not hate you, Guy: you know that, do you not?" Her voice falls a little, trembles, and softens. It is the first time she has ever called him by his Christian name without its prefix, and Guy's pulses begin to throb a little wildly.

"If you do not hate me, what then?" he asks.

"I like you."

"Only that?" rather unsteadily.

"To like honestly is perhaps best of all."

"It may be, but it does not satisfy me. One likes many people."

Lilian is silent. She is almost positive now that he loves her, and while longing to hear him say so, shrinks from saying what will surely bring forth the avowal. And yet if she now answers him coldly, carelessly——

"If I say I am fond of you," she says, in a tone so low, so nervous, as to be almost unheard, "will that do?"

The carriage some time since has turned in the avenue gate.

They are approaching the house swiftly; already the lights from the windows begin to twinkle through the leafy branches of the trees: their time is short. Guy forgets all about Chesney, all about everything except the girlish face so close to his own.

"Are you fond of me, Lilian?" he asks, entreatingly. There is no reply: he stoops, eager to read his fate in her expression. His head touches hers; still lower, and his moustache brushes her cheek; Lilian trembles a little, but her pale lips refuse to answer; another instant, and his lips meet hers. He kisses her warmly, passionately, and fancies—is it fancy?—that she returns his caress faintly.

Then the carriage stops. The men alight. Sir Guy steps out, and Miss Chesney lays her hand in his as he helps her to descend. He presses it warmly, but fails in his anxious attempt to make her eyes meet his: moving quickly past him into the house, she crosses the hall, and has her foot upon the first step of the stairs, when his voice arrests her.

"Good-night, Lilian," he says, rather nervously, addressing her from a few yards' distance. He is thinking of a certain night long ago when he incurred her anger, and trembles for the consequences of his last act.

Lilian hesitates. Then she turns partly toward him, though still keeping half her face averted. Her cheeks are crimson; her eyes, shamed and full of tears, are bent upon the ground. For one swift instant she raises them and lets a soft, shy glance meet his.

"Good-night," she whispers, timidly holding out to him her hand.

Guy takes it gladly, reverently. "Good-night, my own darling," answers he, in a voice choked with emotion.

Then she goes up-stairs, and is lost in her own chamber. But for Guy there is neither rest nor sleep.

Flinging off his coat and waistcoat, he paces incessantly up and down his room, half mad with doubt and fear.

Does she love him? That is the whole burden and refrain of his thoughts; does she? Surely her manner has implied it, and yet—— A terrible misgiving oppresses him, as he remembers the open dislike that of late she has shown to his society, the unconcealed animosity she has so liberally displayed toward him.

Can it be that he has only afforded her amusement for the passing hour? Surely this child, with her soft innocent face and truthful eyes, cannot be old in the wiles and witcheries of the practiced flirt. She has let her head rest upon his shoulder, has let his fingers wander caressingly over her hair, has let tears lie wet upon her cheeks for him; and then he thinks of the closing scene, of how he has kissed her, as a lover might, unrebuked.

But then her manner toward Chesney; true, she had discarded his attentions toward the close of the night, and accepted willingly those of the guardsman, but this piece of seeming fickleness might have arisen out of a lover's quarrel. What if during all their memorable drive home she has been merely trifling with him,—if now, this instant, while he is miserable because of his love for her and the uncertainty belonging to it, she should be laughing at his folly, and thinking composedly of her coming marriage with her cousin! Why then, he tells himself savagely, he is well rid of her, and that he envies no man her possession!

But at the thought he draws his breath hard; his handsome face grows set and stern, a haggard look comes into his blue eyes and lingers round his mouth. Flinging open the window, he leans out to feel the cold air beat upon him, and watches the coming of the morn.

Guy watches its coming, yet scarcely notes its beauty, so full of dark forebodings are his thoughts. Yet it brings him determination and courage to face his fate. To-day he will end this intolerable doubt, and learn what fortune has in store for him, be it good or bad; of this he is finally resolved. She shall declare herself in one of two characters, either as his affianced wife, or as the very vilest coquette the world contains.

And yet her tears!—Again he holds her in his arms. Again his lips meet hers. Again he feels the light pressure of her little tired head upon his shoulder, hears her soft regular breathing. With a groan he rouses himself from these recollections that torture him by their very sweetness.