r pleasure, depart.'

He made way for her. She passed him. Taking two hurried steps in the
gloom of the twilight, she stopped, held at her heart, and painfully
turning to him, threw her arms out, and let herself be seized and kissed.

On his asking pardon of her, which his long habit of respect forced him
to do in the thick of rapture and repetitions, she said, 'You rob no
one.'

'Oh,' he cried, 'there is a reward, then, for faithful love. But am I the
man I was a minute back? I have you; I embrace you; and I doubt that I am
I. Or is it Chloe's ghost?'

'She has died and visits you.'

'And will again?'

Chloe could not speak for languor.

The intensity of the happiness she gave by resting mutely where she was,
charmed her senses. But so long had the frost been on them that their
awakening to warmth was haunted by speculations on the sweet taste of
this reward of faithfulness to him, and the strange taste of her own
unfaithfulness to her. And reflecting on the cold act of speculation
while strong arm and glowing mouth were pressing her, she thought her
senses might really be dead, and she a ghost visiting the good youth for
his comfort. So feel ghosts, she thought, and what we call happiness in
love is a match between ecstasy and compliance. Another thought flew
through her like a mortal shot: 'Not so with those two! with them it will
be ecstasy meeting ecstasy; they will take and give happiness in equal
portions.' A pang of jealousy traversed her frame. She made the
shrewdness of it help to nerve her fervour in a last strain of him to her
bosom, and gently releasing herself, she said, 'No one is robbed. And
now, dear friend, promise me that you will not disturb Mr. Beamish.'

'Chloe,' said he, 'have you bribed me?'

'I do not wish him to be troubled.'

'The duchess, I have told you--'

'I know. But you have Chloe's word that she will watch over the duchess
and die to save her. It is an oath. You have heard of some arrangements.
I say they shall lead to nothing: it shall not take place. Indeed, my
friend, I am awake; I see as much as you see. And those . . . after being
where I have been, can you suppose I have a regret? But she is my dear
and peculiar charge, and if she runs a risk, trust to me that there shall
be no catastrophe; I swear it; so, now, adieu. We sup in company
to-night. They will be expecting some of Chloe's verses, and she must
sing to herself for a few minutes to stir the bed her songs take