sight of his handwriting I grow cold from head to
foot, I tremble, my heart aches so that it seems breaking in two. I long
to be with him, yet when I am with him I have nothing to say. I have to
escape and be miserable all alone. He is my thought all day: the last
before I sleep, the first when I awake. I could cry and cry and cry. I
try to read, and I remember not a word. I like playing best, for then I
can almost imagine that he is listening. But when I stop playing and
look round, I find myself in an empty room. It is awful. I call his
name; no one answers. I whisper it; still no answer. I throw myself on
the ground, and I say, 'Think of me! think of me! you shall, you must,
you do think of me!' It is great torture and a great despair. Perhaps it
is a madness too. But it is my way of loving. I want to live while I
live. If I knew for certain that he loved me--me only--the joy, I think,
would kill me. Love! Do you know, poor little angel, what it means?
Sometimes it is a curse."

Pensee, before this torrent, was shaking like some small flower in a
violent gale.

"You say things, Sara, that no one says--things that one ought not to
say. You must be quieter. You won't be happy when you are married if you
begin with so much feeling!"

"I am not going to marry that one," said Sara bitterly. "I am going to
marry Marshire."

Lady Fitz Rewes had too delicate a face to contain any expression of
the alarm and horror she felt at this statement. She frowned, bit her
lips, and sank back in her chair. What stroke of fate, she wondered, had
overtaken the poor girl? Was she sane? Was she herself? Pensee found
some relief in the thought that Sara was not herself--a state into which
most people are presumed to fall whenever, from stress or emotion, they
become either strictly candid or perfectly natural.

"It is a fancy. Fancies are in my blood," said Sara; "you need not be
anxious."

"But--but what feeling have you for Marshire?" murmured Pensee.

"I have a faint inclination not to dislike him utterly. And I will be a
good wife to him. If I say so, I shall keep my word. You may be sure of
that."

"I could never doubt your honour, Sara. Is the other man quite, quite
out of the question?"

"Quite."

"But perhaps he does love you."

"Oh no, he doesn't. He may think me picturesque and rather entertaining.
It never went deeper than that. I saw at once that his mind was fixed on
some other woman."

"I suppose one can alwa