it of his at present pending; and
during the tedious weeks of convalescence Maurice Trafford carried the
daily report to Belgrave House. It seemed as though fate were
conspiring against him; every day he saw Nea, and every day her
presence grew more perilously sweet to him.

She had a thousand innocent pretexts for detaining him, little girlish
coquetries which she did not employ in vain. She would ask him about
her father, or beg him to tell her about the tiresome lawsuit, or show
him her birds and flowers, anything, in fact, that her caprice could
devise to keep him beside her for a moment; very often they met in her
father's room, or Mr. Huntingdon would give orders that Mr. Trafford
should stay to luncheon.

Nea, in her blindness, thought she was only amusing herself with an
idle fancy, a girl's foolish partiality for a face that seemed almost
perfect in her eyes; she little thought that she was playing a
dangerous game, that the time was fast approaching when she would find
her fancy a sorrowful reality.

Day by day those stolen moments became more perilous in their
sweetness; and one morning Nea woke up to the conviction that Maurice
Trafford loved her, that he was everything to her, and that she would
rather die than live without him.

It was one afternoon, and they were together in the drawing-room.
Maurice had come late that day, and a violent storm had set in, and
Mr. Huntingdon had sent down word that Mr. Trafford had better wait
until it was over. To do Mr. Huntingdon justice, he had no idea his
daughter was in the house; she had gone out to luncheon, and he had
not heard of her return.

The heavy velvet curtains had been drawn to shut out the dreary scene,
and only the fire-light lit up the room; Nea, sitting in her favorite
low chair, with her feet on the white rug, was looking up at Maurice,
who stood leaning against the mantel-piece talking to her.

He was telling her about his father's early death, and of the
sweet-faced mother who had not long survived him; of his own struggles
and poverty, of his lonely life, his efforts to follow his parents'
example. Nea listened to him in silence; but once he paused, and the
words seemed to die on his lips. He had never seen her look like that
before; she was trembling, her face was pale, and her eyes were wet
with tears; and then, how it happened neither of them could tell, but
Maurice knew that he loved her--knew that Nea loved him--and was
holding her to