a long time... And you
care too? You do care for me, Teresa?"

"Oh, _yes_!"

The answer came with a fervour which could not fail to be infectious.

"Enough--some day--to be my wife? I wish I had more to offer you,
little girl!"

"Oh, I want nothing, I want nothing. I would marry you if you were a
workman in a cottage. Sooner--than a _king_!"

It was true. The girl's voice rang with a sincerity of passion, which
was startling in its contrast to the man's light tones, and Peignton,
realising the contrast, was at once touched and abashed.

"You dear girl!" he said softly. "Thank you, dear. I'm not worth it,
but--I'll be good to you, Teresa! You shall never regret it."

Teresa laughed at the absurdity of the thought. It seemed impossible
that anything in the nature of regret, or grief, or anxiety, or even
boredom could ever again cloud her heart. She had reached the pinnacle
of her desires. To know that Dane loved her meant absolute, unclouded
happiness. He would go on loving her. Therefore she would go on being
blissful and content. As in the fairy tales, they would be happy ever
after. "I never knew that it was possible to be so happy!" sighed
Teresa in her heart.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE GIFT OF CREATION.

Teresa entered the quiet house, cast a look at the drawing-room door,
and realised with relief that her mother had retired to bed. Probably
she would be awake, and would expect the returning daughter to enter her
room in passing, and give a history of the evening's adventures, but
Teresa had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Pausing for a
moment in the hall, she took off her slippers and crept noiselessly past
the dreaded portals up to the third floor. To-morrow morning there
would be reprisals, but she had news to tell which would speedily turn
the tide. The flood of questions and curiosities which were bound to
flow from the maternal lips would be intolerable to-night, nevertheless
Teresa felt the need of speech. The relief, the joy, the triumph of the
moment seemed more than she could endure alone. She needed someone to
listen, not to talk, and Mary had been trained by long years of
self-abnegation to fill that post.

Teresa entered her sister's room and turned on the electric switch.
Mary lay asleep, her face showing yellow against the whiteness of the
pillow, her hair screwed together in a walnut-like knob at the top of
her head. She stirred, opened listless eyes to st