d go away."

She loved him all the better for his impatience.

"Anna," he said--the two dark heads were close together, the madness of
the impulse was too much for both. Their lips met in a first long
kiss. The man was to have his way. The kiss proved a more eloquent
argument than all his pleading.

"Say you will, Anna."

"Yes," she whispered.

And then they heard the street door open and close, and the voices of
Mrs. Tremont and her daughter, as they made their way to the library.
And the two young souls, who hovered on the brink of heaven, were
obliged to listen to the latest gossip of fashionable Boston.

CHAPTER III.

CONTAINING SOME REFLECTIONS AND THE ENTRANCE OF MEPHISTOPHELES.

"Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor horrid lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime."--_Byron_.

Lennox Sanderson was stretched in his window-seat with a book, of
which, however, he knew nothing--not even the title--his mind being
occupied by other thoughts than reading at that particular time.

Did he dare do it? The audacity of the proceeding was sufficient to
make the iron will of even Lennox Sanderson waver. And yet, to lose
her! Such a contingency was not to be considered. His mind flew
backward and forward like a shuttle, he turned the leaves of his book;
he smoked, but no light came from within or without.

He glanced about the familiar objects in his sitting-room as one
unconsciously does when the mind is on the rack of anxiety, as if to
seek council from the mute things that make up so large a part of our
daily lives.

It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of the
appointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity. Heavy red
curtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparted
a degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere. Russian candlesticks of
highly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves.
Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark red
paper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintings
showed to excellent advantage. They were reproductions of Botticelli,
Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity.
Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes,
flintlocks and carbines. A helmet and breastplate filled the space
between the two windows. Some dozen or more of pipe racks held the