do, because," here two large tears fall down her
cheeks and break upon her clasped hands, "because, you see, _you_ had
not asked me to marry you, and I thought that perhaps you never might
ask me, and that so my promise meant very little."

"How could you have thought that?" says Roger, deeply grieved.

"Well, you hadn't said a word, you know," murmurs she, sorrowfully.

"How could I?" groans Dare. "When you were going of your own free will,
and my folly, to marry another fellow."

"There was very little free will about it," whispers she, tearfully.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know what's going to be done now," says Mr.
Dare, despairingly, sinking into a chair near the table, and letting his
head fall in a distracting fashion into his hands.

He seems lost in thought, sunk in a very slough of despond, out of which
it seems impossible to him he can ever be extricated. He has turned away
his face, lest he shall see the little disconsolate figure in the other
arm-chair, that looked so many degrees too large for it.

To gaze at Dulce is to bring on a state of feeling even more keenly
miserable than the present one. She is looking particularly pretty
to-night, her late encounter with Stephen, and her perplexity, and the
anxiety about telling it all to Roger, having added a wistfulness to her
expression that heightens every charm she possesses. She is dressed in a
white gown of Indian muslin made high to the throat, but with short
sleeves, and has in her hair a diamond star, that once belonged to her
mother.

Her hands are folded in her lap, and she is gazing with a very troubled
stare at the bright fire. Presently, as though the thoughts in which she
has been indulging have proved too much for her, she flings up her head
impatiently, and, rising softly, goes to the back of Roger's chair and
leans over it.

"Roger," she says, in a little anxious whisper, that trembles ever so
lightly, "you are not angry with me, are you?"

Impulsively, as she asks this, she raises one of her soft, naked arms
and lays it round his neck. In every action of Dulce's there is
something so childlike and loving, that it appeals straight to the
heart. The touch of her cool, sweet flesh, as it brushes against his
cheek, sends a strange thrill through Roger--a thrill hitherto unknown
to him. He turns his face to hers; their eyes meet; and then, in a
moment, he has risen, and he has her in his arms, and has laid his lips
on hers; and they have