from first to last."

"What you say is all _too_ true," says Dulce, calmly; then, with most
suspicious gentleness, and a smile that is all "sweetness and light,"
"_would_ you mind removing your arm from my waist. It makes me feel
faint. Thanks, _so_ much."

After this silence again reigns. Several minutes go by, and nothing can
be heard save the soughing of the rising wind, and the turbulent rushing
of the stream below. Dulce is turning the rings round and round upon her
pretty fingers; Stephen is looking out to sea with a brow as black as
thunder, or any of the great gaunt rocks far out to the West, that are
frowning down upon the unconscious ocean.

Presently something--perhaps it is remorse--strikes upon Dulce's heart
and softens her. She goes nearer to him and slips one small, perfect
hand through his arm, she even presses his arm to her softly, kindly,
with a view to restoring its owner to good temper.

This advance on her part has the desired effect. Stephen forgets there
is such a thing as a sea, and, taking up the little, penitent hand,
presses it tenderly to his lips.

"Now, do not let us be disagreeable any more," says Dulce, prettily.
"Let us try to remember what we were talking about before we began to
discuss Roger."

Mr. Gower grasps his chance.

"I was saying that though we have been engaged now for some time you
have never once kissed me," he says, hopefully.

"And would you," reproachfully, "after all I have said, risk the chance
of making me, perhaps, hate you, too? I have told you how I detest being
kissed, yet now you would argue the point. Oh, Stephen! is this your
vaunted love?"

"But it is a curious view you take of it, isn't it, darling?" suggests
Gower, humbly, "to say a kiss would raise hatred in your breast. I am
perfectly certain it would make _me_ love _you_ MORE!"

"Then you could love me more?" with frowning reproach.

"No, no! I didn't mean that, only--"

"I must say I am greatly disappointed in you," says Miss Blount, with
lowered eyes. "I shouldn't have believed it of you. Well, as you are
bent on rushing on your fate, I'll tell you what I will do."

"What?" he turns to her, a look of eager expectancy on his face. Is she
going to prove kind at last?

"Sometime," begins she, demurely, "no doubt I shall marry you--some
time, that is, in the coming century--and then, when the time is finally
arranged, just the very morning of our marriage, you shall kiss me, not
before. T