you, at all events," murmurs he, gloomily.

Silence follows this. Nothing is heard save the distant laughter of the
skaters at the other end of the lake and the scraping noise of their
feet. The storm is rising steadily in the hills above, but as yet has
not descended on the quiet valley. The gaunt trees are swaying and
bending ominously, and through them one catches glimpses of the angry
sky above, across which clouds are scudding tempestuously. The dull sun
has vanished: all is gray and cheerless. The roar of the breakers upon
the rock-bound coast comes up from afar: while up there upon the wooded
hill the

"Wind, that grand old harper, smites
His thunder-harp of pines."

"Perhaps we had better return to the others," says Dulce, coldly, making
a movement as though to rise.

"Now I have offended you," exclaims Roger, miserably, catching her hand,
and drawing her down to the stone beside him again. "I don't know what's
the matter with me; I only know I am as wretched as ever I can be.
Forgive me, if you can."

He pulls his hat over his eyes and sighs deeply. At this moment his
whole appearance is so decidedly suicidal that no true woman could look
at him unmoved. Miss Blount is a true woman, her _hauteur_ of a moment
since vanishes like snow, and compassion takes its place.

"What is making you wretched?" she asks, in a tone meant to be severe,
but which is only friendly.

"When I remember what a fool I have been," begins Roger, rather as if he
is following out a train of thought than answering her.

"Oh, no; not that," says Dulce, very kindly; "don't call yourself that."

"There is no other name for me," persists Roger, with increasing
melancholy. "Of course, at _that time_--I knew you didn't particularly
care for me, but," disconsolately, "it never occurred to me you might
care for any other fellow!"

"I didn't!" said Miss Blount, suddenly; and then, as suddenly, she
remembers everything, her engagement to Stephen, her horror of that
engagement, all that her last words have admitted, and, growing as red
as a rose, she seeks to hide her confusion by burying her rounded chin
as deep as she can in her soft furs. At the same time she lowers her
lids over her shamed eyes and gazes at her boots as if she never saw
small twos before.

Roger, I need hardly say, is too much of a gentleman to take any notice
of this impulsive admission on her part. Besides, he hardly gets as much
consolation