.

"I am glad of it," he said, rather hoarsely; "make her happy, Denis, if
you can."

"Thanks. I shall go on to see her now."

Helen murmured an unintelligible apology, and Denis Wilde passed onwards
towards the vicarage.

He had taken her good name into his keeping, he had shielded her from
that other woman's slandering tongue; but he had done so in his despair.
He had spoken no lie in saying that he hoped to make her his wife; but it
was no doubt a fact that Helen and her husband would now believe him to
be engaged to her. Would Vera be induced to verify his words, and to
place herself and her life beneath the shelter of his love, or would she
only be angry with him for venturing to presume upon his hopes? Denis
could not tell.

Ten minutes later he stood alone with her in the vicarage dining-room;
he had sent in his card with a pencilled line upon it to ask for a few
minutes' conversation with her.

Vera had desired that her visitor might be shown into the dining-room.
Old Mrs. Daintree had been amazed and scandalized, and even Marion had
opened her eyes at so unusual a proceeding; but the vicar was out by a
sick bedside in the village, and no one else ever controlled Vera's
actions.

Nevertheless, she herself looked somewhat surprised at so late a visit
from him. And then, somehow or other, Denis made it plain to her how it
was he had come, and what he had said of her. Her name, he told her, had
been lightly spoken of; to have defended it without authority would have
been to do her more harm than good; to take it under his lawful
protection had been instinctively suggested to him by his longing to
shield her. Would she forgive him?

"It was Mrs. Kynaston who spoke evil things of me," said Vera, wearily.
She was very tired, she hardly understood, she scarcely cared about what
he was saying to her; it mattered very little what was said to her. There
was that other scene under the shadow of the roses of the gateway so
vividly before her; the memory of Maurice's passionate kisses upon her
lips, the sound of his beloved voice in her ears. What did anything else
signify?

And meanwhile Denis Wilde was pouring out his whole soul to her.

"My darling, give me the right to defend you now and always," he pleaded;
"do not refuse me the happiness of protecting your dear name from such
women. I know you don't love me, dear, not as I love you, but I will not
mind that; I will ask you for nothing that you will not giv