ctor sanctioned it.

She turned away to take up her cloak. Linley stopped her. "You can't
leave Kitty," he said, positively.

A faint smile brightened her face for a moment. "Kitty has fallen
asleep--such a sweet, peaceful sleep! I don't think I should have left
her but for that. The maid is watching at the bedside, and Mrs. Linley
is only away for a little while."

"Wait a few minutes," he pleaded; "it's so long since we have seen each
other."

The tone in which he spoke warned her to persist in leaving him while
her resolution remained firm. "I had arranged with Mrs. MacEdwin," she
began, "if all went well--"

"Speak of yourself," he interposed. "Tell me if you are happy."

She let this pass without a reply. "The doctor sees no harm," she went
on, "in my being away for a few hours. Mrs. MacEdwin has offered to send
me here in the evening, so that I can sleep in Kitty's room."

"You don't look well, Sydney. You are pale and worn--you are not happy."

She began to tremble. For the second time, she turned away to take up
her cloak. For the second time, he stopped her.

"Not just yet," he said. "You don't know how it distresses me to see
you so sadly changed. I remember the time when you were the happiest
creature living. Do you remember it, too?"

"Don't ask me!" was all she could say.

He sighed as he looked at her. "It's dreadful to think of your
young life, that ought to be so bright, wasting and withering among
strangers." He said those words with increasing agitation; his eyes
rested on her eagerly with a wild look in them. She made a resolute
effort to speak to him coldly--she called him "Mr. Linley"--she bade him
good-by.

It was useless. He stood between her and the door; he disregarded what
she had said as if he had not heard it. "Hardly a day passes," he owned
to her, "that I don't think of you."

"You shouldn't tell me that!"

"How can I see you again--and not tell you?"

She burst out with a last entreaty. "For God's sake, let us say
good-by!"

His manner became undisguisedly tender; his language changed in the
one way of all others that was most perilous to her--he appealed to her
pity: "Oh, Sydney, it's so hard to part with you!"

"Spare me!" she cried, passionately. "You don't know how I suffer."

"My sweet angel, I do know it--by what I suffer myself! Do you ever feel
for me as I feel for you?"

"Oh, Herbert! Herbert!"

"Have you ever thought of me since we parted?"

She had st