he mistook her old childish affection
for the passion that is strong as death? No--no, it could not be. If
there was truth in her eyes, in her voice, she loved him as dearly as he
loved her, though never a word of love had been spoken between them. The
young man wrought himself up into such a state of agitation and
excitement that he never reached Marsh-End nor saw Mr. Moxon at all that
day. He turned, and bent his steps by a circuitous path to a woodland
nook where he had left his friend Christie at work a couple of hours
ago.

"Back again so soon? Then you did not find Moxon at home," said the
artist, scarcely lifting an eye from the canvas.

Harry flung himself on the ground beside his friend and delivered his
mind of its new burden. Christie now condescended to look at him and to
say calmly, "It is always well to know what threatens us, but there is
no need to exaggerate facts. Mr. Cecil Burleigh is a rival you may be
proud to defeat; Miss Fairfax will please herself, and I think you are a
match for him. You have the start."

"I know Bessie is fond of me, but she is a simple, warm-hearted girl,
and is fond of all of us," said Harry with a reflective air.

"I had no idea you were so modest. Probably she has a slight preference
for _you_." Christie went on painting, and now and then a telling touch
accentuated his sentiments.

Harry hearkened, and grew more composed. "I wish I had her own assurance
of it," said he.

"You had better ask her," said Christie.

After this they were silent for a considerable space, and the picture
made progress. Then Harry began again, summing up his disadvantages: "Is
it fair to ask her? Here am I, of no account as to family or fortune,
and under a cloud as to the future, if my mother and Carnegie are
justified in their warnings--and sometimes it comes over me that they
are--why, Christie, what have I to offer her? Nothing, nothing but my
presumptuous self."

"Let her be judge: women have to put up with a little presumption in a
lover."

"Would it not be great presumption? Consider her relations and friends,
her rank and its concomitants. I cannot tell how much she has learnt to
value them, how necessary they have become to her. Lady Latimer, who was
good to me until the other day, is shutting her doors against me now as
too contemptible."

"Not at all. The despotic old lady shuts her doors against you because
she is afraid of you."

"What have I to urge except that I love