s trouble, for he felt that say what he would he could only give her
new pain, he said humbly:

'Don't ask me, Stephen! Won't you understand that I want to do what is
best for you? Won't you trust me?' Her answer came harshly. A more
experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, would have seen
how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivot of his future
bearing and acts and words while the interview lasted; pity, and pity
only. But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same. The Stephen whom
he loved was no subject for pity, but for devotion only. He knew the
nobility of her nature and must trust it to the end. When her silence
and her blazing eyes denied his request, he answered her query in a low
voice:

'I did!' Even whilst he spoke he was thankful for one thing, he had not
been pledged in any way to confidence. Leonard had forced the knowledge
on him; and though he would have preferred a million times over to be
silent, he was still free to speak. Stephen's next question came more
coldly still:

'Did he tell you of his meeting with me?'

'He did.'

'Did he tell you all?' It was torture to him to answer; but he was at
the stake and must bear it.

'I think so! If it was true.'

'What did he tell you? Stay! I shall ask you the facts myself; the
broad facts. We need not go into details . . . '

'Oh, Stephen!' She silenced his pleading with an imperious hand.

'If I can go into this matter, surely you can. If I can bear the shame
of telling, you can at least bear that of listening. Remember that
knowing--knowing what you know, or at least what you have heard--you
could come here and propose marriage to me!' This she said with a cold,
cutting sarcasm which sounded like the rasping of a roughly-sharpened
knife through raw flesh. Harold groaned in spirit; he felt a weakness
which began at his heart to steal through him. It took all his manhood
to bear himself erect. He dreaded what was coming, as of old the once-
tortured victim dreaded the coming torment of the rack.

CHAPTER XV--THE END OF THE MEETING

Stephen went on in her calm, cold voice:

'Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?' Despite herself, as
she spoke the words a red tide dyed her face. It was not a flush; it was
not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her, leaving her
in a few seconds whiter than before. Harold saw and understood. He
could not speak; he lowere