"Agatha? You!"

"Yes, yes. I have only a moment—but I must speak to you. After you went, Dr. Darkham came; he had seen you, and—-"

"Wait a moment!" His voice was stern. "Give me your hands. You must come in and tell me all." The window was very close to the ground, and she sprang to his side easily.

She was now in the room, but so great was her nervous agitation that she never once glanced round her to see what kind it was. Her lover's room. And yet she never looked at it. She thought only of him.

"Jack! I could not help coming. I felt I should tell you."

"My darling girl! But what—-"

With her head upon his breast, she told him all—her hatred, her suspicions, her fears.

Dillwyn, holding her close to his heart, laughed a little. Her fears—her sweet, sweet fears!—that were all for him.

"You may laugh," said she; "and I am glad you do. Somehow it makes me feel less frightened. But, still, be on your guard. Do, Jack. I dread that man."

"Say you hate him. That will satisfy me more," said Dillwyn, "though I don't think even Mrs. Greatorex could make you be false to me now. My poor, poor little heart! Fancy your coming all this way to tell me to take care of myself!"

"To keep yourself alive for my sake." He drew her to him, and for a moment they clung to each other, heart to heart. Then again he laughed.

"Well, I'll do my best," said he.

Agatha glanced past him. She was now rewarding herself for her virtuous abstinence on her entrance. She was examining the room.

"What a lovely little room!" said she.

Dillwyn coloured.

"No, no, you must not look at it," said he, taking her face between both his hands and hiding her eyes against his breast.

"But I must—I must indeed." She drew herself free from him and looked round. It was a small room, very barely furnished, but there were touches about it here and there—little remnants brought from his late home: a picture or two, a tiny statuette, a large bowl of flowers, a small bookcase, crowded from top to bottom with favourite writers—that redeemed it from the actual vulgarity of poverty. A poor man lived here, no doubt, but the poor man was a gentleman.

A little fire was burning on the hearth, and she went up to it and looked down at a large arm-chair close to it.

"This is where you sit?" said she. There was delight and love and humour in her eyes.

He went to her and caught her hands and pressed their palms to his lips.

"Sometimes," said he, "I have dreamt of you as sitting there— in that chair, close to that fire. A presumptuous dream!"

He regarded her anxiously.

"A lovely one," said she.

"But the room must not be like this," said he. "No—a better one—larger—with a bow window, and a little garden outside, and—You know that house of the Beckets, at the other side of the village?"

"Too big!" said she. "What I like is this—just this." She glanced at the wall near her. "What a charming picture!"

"You like it? My father gave it to me a year ago. You think you could be happy here—even here? You would be content with me?"

"Content!" Her tone was answer enough. "Do not have a doubt," said she eagerly. "Do not spoil one single moment of ours."

At this moment a whistle loud and long came to them through the open window.

Agatha started.

"I must go," said she. "Though I'm certain it can't be five minutes yet."

"Who's whistling?" asked he.

"Dicky Browne. He brought me here."

"Browne!"

"Yes." She smiled at him. "He said he knew you would shoot him for it. But he has been so kind. I couldn't have come but for him. I do so like Dicky, don't you?"

"Yes. But you mustn't like him too much."

"There is only one person in the world I like too much. But you must confess that Dicky was very good to me to-night."

"I know. But"—impatiently—"I wish there was no need for any one to be good to you except me. However, I am grateful to him. And so long as you love me—you do love me, Agatha?"

"You know it."

"Still, it is so good to hear. Forgive me. I'm a jealous fool. I wish we had never to part again. And soon," said he quickly, eagerly, "you will be my very own. I shall succeed. I shall conquer fortune. I know it. I feel strong." Indeed he looked strong as he stood before her with his hands on her shoulders, and his dark, brilliant eyes full of life and hope. "Before I met you I hardly cared for success. My work was sufficient for me. But now—-" He swayed her softly, tenderly, to and fro and laughed aloud. "What fool said that love ruined genius? I tell you, you have given me genius—you that are the soul of me—I shall win."

He insisted on taking her out—solely against her will—to where Dicky was waiting for her. That worthy had retreated behind a laburnum-tree, and it was only when she called his name carefully that he consented to show the tip of his nose.

"No blunderbusses, I trust," said he, in a quavering tone. "I'm an orphan boy, guv'nor. Spare! oh, spare me!"

"Come, Dicky, come," cried Agatha, in a low voice. "Oh, I hope we shall be home before Aunt Hilda."

"I'm glad you thought of it!" said Mr. Browne wrathfully. "We've got just twenty minutes to do it in, and I'm not so young as I used to be. When next you take your walks abroad, I'd be thankful to you if you'd give yourself decent time to do them in. Twice I whistled. I am sure I need hardly say, Dillywn, that you did not try to detain her. On the contrary, I feel certain you did your utmost to hasten her departure. I hope you gave her a piece of your mind on the subject of unpunctuality. You ought, you know! You—as her lord and master."

"Dicky, are you coming?" said Agatha severely. She turned impetuously, and moved quickly into the shadow of the trees. Really, Dicky was too provoking! Mr. Browne, after a silent but most effective farewell to Dillwyn, followed her.

Just as they once more reached the little inside gate of the villa, the sound of wheels in the small avenue outside told them of Mrs. Greatorex's return.

"Cut for your life!" cried Mr. Browne in a tragic whisper, and without waiting for another word from her, he took his own advice, and bolting through the few shrubs, found himself presently safe but breathless on the public road, and almost in the arms of Dillwyn.

"So you followed the dear departed, after all," said Dicky. "What a thing is love! To tread in the footsteps of her is rapture. Or"—Mr. Browne paused and drew himself proudly up—"or else am I to understand, sir, that you distrusted me?"

Dillwyn drew his arm within his.

"You know all about it," said he. "Come back with me and have a pipe and a whisky-and-soda."

We all know what that meant! But Mr. Browne was of a high courage. He accepted the invitation.