own to meet him,--glowing, beautiful, appealing, tender,--then all
meaner spells vanished, if such had ever haunted him, and he was hers
alone.

Later that evening, after the household had separated, Hope went into
the empty drawing-room for a light. Philip, after a moment's hesitation,
followed her, and paused in the doorway. She stood, a white-robed
figure, holding the lighted candle; behind her rose the arched alcove,
whose quaint cherubs looked down on her; she seemed to have stepped
forth, the awakened image of a saint. Looking up, she saw his eager
glance; then she colored, trembled, and put the candle down. He came to
her, took her hand and kissed it, then put his hand upon her brow and
gazed into her face, then kissed her lips. She quietly yielded, but her
color came and went, and her lips moved as if to speak. For a moment he
saw her only, thought only of her.

Then, even while he gazed into her eyes, a flood of other memories
surged over him, and his own eyes grew dim. His head swam, the lips he
had just kissed appeared to fade away, and something of darker, richer
beauty seemed to burn through those fair features; he looked through
those gentle eyes into orbs more radiant, and it was as if a countenance
of eager passion obliterated that fair head, and spoke with substituted
lips, "Behold your love." There was a thrill of infinite ecstasy in the
work his imagination did; he gave it rein, then suddenly drew it in and
looked at Hope. Her touch brought pain for an instant, as she laid her
hand upon him, but he bore it. Then some influence of calmness came;
there swept by him a flood of earlier, serener memories; he sat down in
the window-seat beside her, and when she put her face beside his, and
her soft hair touched his cheek, and he inhaled the rose-odor that
always clung round her, every atom of his manhood stood up to drive away
the intruding presence, and he again belonged to her alone.

When he went to his chamber that night, he drew from his pocket a little
note in a girlish hand, which he lighted in the candle, and put upon the
open hearth to burn. With what a cruel, tinkling rustle the pages flamed
and twisted and opened, as if the fire read them, and collapsed again as
if in agonizing effort to hold their secret even in death! The closely
folded paper refused to burn, it went out again and again; while each
time Philip Malbone examined it ere relighting, with a sort of
vague curiosity, to see how much