e-a-tete. Blanche's first thought was of her brother. She ran out
through the hall, and up the staircase, and I followed her. At the top
of the stairs, leaning against the wall, breathing fast, and his face
ashy white, stood Syd, and at his feet, in a dead faint, lay Cecil St.
Aubyn. I caught hold of Blanche's arm and held her back as she was about
to spring forward. I thought their meeting had much best be
uninterrupted; for, if Cecil's had been mere flirtation I fancied the
Colonel's return could scarcely have moved her like this.

Vivian stood looking down on her, all the passion in him breaking
bounds. He could not stand calmly by the woman he loved. He did not wait
to know whether she was his or another's--whether she was worthy or
unworthy of him--but he lifted her up and pressed her unconscious form
against his heart, covering her lips with wild caresses. Waking from her
trance, she opened her eyes with a terrified stare, and gazed up in his
face; then tears came to her relief, and she sank down at his feet again
with a pitiful cry, "Forgive me--forgive me!" Weak as Syd was, he found
strength to raise her in his arms, and whisper, as he bent over her, "If
you love me, I have nothing to forgive."

* * * * *

The snow fell softly without over the woods and fields and the winds
roared through the old oaks and whistled among the frozen ferns, but
Christmas-eve passed brightly enough to us at home within the strong
walls of Deerhurst.

I am sure that all Moore's pictures of Paradise seemed to me tame
compared to that drawing-room, with its warmth, and coziness, and
luxuries; with the waxlights shining on the silver of the English tea
equipage (pleasant to eye and taste, let one love campaigning ever so
well, after the roast beans of the Commissariat), and the fire-gleams
dancing on the soft brow and shining hair of the face beside me. I doubt
if Vivian either ever spent a happier Christmas-eve as he lay on the
sofa in the back drawing-room, with Cecil sitting on a low seat by him,
her hand in his, and the Canadian eyes telling him eloquently of love
and reconciliation. They had such volumes to say! As soon as she knew
that wild farewell of his preceded his departure to the Crimea, Cecil,
always impulsive, had written to him on the instant, telling him how she
loved him, detailing what she had heard in the green-room, confessing
that, in desperation, she had done everything she could t