he had risen, but not advanced, to meet him, her tall
figure, sheathed in some close-fitting, soft stuff, thrown into relief
by the dark-blue velvet portiere behind her. He was not unaware of his
unworthiness in the presence of this superb young creature, and as he
crossed the room it was with the humility of a worshipper before a
shrine.

"Mademoiselle," he said, simply, when he had raised himself, "I come to
tell you that I love you."

The glance, slightly oblique, of suspended expression with which she
received the words encouraged him to continue.

"I know how far what I have to give is beneath the honor of your
acceptance; and yet when men love they are impelled to offer all the
little that they have. My one hope lies in the fact that a woman like
you doesn't love a man for what he is--but for what she can make him."

The words were admirably chosen, reaching her heart with a force greater
than he knew.

"A woman," she answered, with a certain stately uplifting of the head,
"can only make a man that which he has already the power to become. She
may be able to point out the way; but it's for him to follow it."

"I don't think you'd see me hesitate at that."

"I'm glad you say so; because the road I should have to ask you to take
would be a hard one."

"The harder the better, if it's anything by which I can prove my love."

"It is; but it's not only that; it's something by which you could prove
mine."

His face brightened.

"In that case, Mademoiselle--speak."

She took an instant to assemble her forces, standing before him with a
calmness she did not feel.

"You must forgive me," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "if I
take the initiative, as no girl is often called upon to do. Perhaps I
should hesitate more if you hadn't told me, two years ago, what I know
you've come to repeat to-day. The fact that I've waited those two years
to hear you say it gives me a right that otherwise I shouldn't claim."

He bowed.

"There are no rights that a woman can have over a man which you,
Mademoiselle, do not possess over me."

"Before telling me again," she continued, speaking with difficulty,
"what you've told me already, I want to say that I can only listen to it
on one condition."

"Which is--?"

"That your own conscience is at peace with itself."

There was a sudden startled toss of the head, but he answered, bravely:

"Is one's conscience ever at peace with itself? A woman's, perhaps; but
a