ou before all the world as my future wife!"

Every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous
passion, sounded in Shirley's ear like a soft caress. She closed
her eyes. A strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a
mysterious thrill passed through her whole body. The eternal,
inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a
woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences,
putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler
judgment had made. The sensuous charm of the place--the distant
splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of
the trees and grass--all these symbols of the joy of life
conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman. Why, after all,
should she not know happiness like other women? She had a sacred
duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done
because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her
womanhood? Both her soul and her body called out: "Let this man
love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love."

Half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes
shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her
cheek:

"Shirley, I offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman. Say
the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched
of men. Yes or no! Only think well before you wreck my life. I
love you--I love you! I will wait for you if need be until the
crack of doom. Say--say you will be my wife!"

She opened her eyes. His face was bent close over hers. Their lips
almost touched.

"Yes, Jefferson," she murmured, "I do love you!"

His lips met hers in a long, passionate kiss. Her eyes closed and
an ecstatic thrill seemed to convulse her entire being. The birds
in the trees overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of
the betrothal.

CHAPTER XIV

It was nearly seven o'clock when Shirley got back to
Seventy-fourth Street. No one saw her come in, and she went direct
to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the
night on her book to make up for lost time. The events of the
afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness. She reproached
herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the
impulse of the moment. She had said only what was the truth when
she admitted she loved Jefferson, but what right had she to
dispose of her future while her father's fate was still uncertain?
Her conscience troubled