he
wrote me, when I had run away to Paris. In it, he spoke, as never to me
before, of his own marriage--of his love for my mother. Every word
remains in my memory, but I can't trust my voice to repeat them, and
perhaps I ought not--even to you."

"May I go to him, and speak for myself?"

"Yes--but not till I have seen him."

"Can't I spare you that?" said Piers, in a voice which, for the first
time, sounded his triumphant manhood. "Do you think I fear a meeting
with your father, or doubt of its result? If I had gone merely on my
own account, to try to remove his prejudice and win his regard, it
would have been a different thing; indeed, I could never have done
that; I felt too keenly his reasons for disliking me. But now! In what
man's presence should I shrink, and feel myself unworthy? You have put
such words into my heart as will gain my cause for me the moment they
are spoken. I have no false shame--no misgivings. I shall speak the
truth of myself and you, and your father will hear me."

Irene listened with the love-light in her hazel eyes; the face she
turned upon him brought back a ray of sunshine to the slowly shadowing
glen.

"I will think till to-morrow," she said. "Come to the Castle to-morrow
morning, and I shall have settled many things. But now we must go;
Helen will wonder what has become of me; I didn't tell her I was going
out."

He bent over her hand; she did not withdraw it from him as they walked
through the bracken, and beneath the green boughs, and picked their way
over the white stones of the rushing beck.

At the road, they parted.

An hour after sunset, Piers was climbing the hillside towards the
Castle, now a looming shape against a sky still duskily purpled from
the west. He climbed slowly, doubting at each step whether to go
nearer, or to wave his hand and turn. Still, he approached. In the
cottages a few lights were seen; but no one moved; there was no voice.
His own footstep on the sward fell soundless.

He stood before the tower which was inhabited, and looked at the
dim-lighted windows. To the entrance led a long flight of steps, and as
he gazed through the gloom, he seemed to discern a figure standing
there, before the doorway. He was not mistaken; the figure moved,
descended. Motionless, he saw it turn towards him. Then he knew the
step, the form; he sprang forward.

"Irene!"

"You have come to say good-night? See how our thoughts chime; I guessed
you would."

Her voice