lass of wine taken with his
college friend had proved too much for the already confused brain of
her lover who began talking foolishly and acting in a way that
mortified and pained her exceedingly. She now sought to get him into
the library and out of common observation. Her father had just received
from France and England some rare books filled with art illustrations,
and she invited him to their examination. But he was feeling too social
for that.

"Why, no, pet." He made answer with a fond familiarity he would
scarcely have used if they had been alone instead of in a crowded
drawing-room, touching her cheek playfully with his fingers as he
spoke. "Not now. We'll reserve that pleasure for another time. This is
good enough for me;" and he swung his arms around and gave a little
whoop like an excited rowdy.

A deep crimson dyed for a moment the face of Blanche. In a moment
afterward it was pale as ashes. Whitford saw the death-like change, and
it partially roused him to a sense of his condition.

"Of course I'll go to the library if your heart's set on it," he said,
drawing her arm in his and taking her out of the room with a kind of
flourish. Many eyes turned on them. In some was surprise, in some
merriment and in some sorrow and pain.

"Now for the books," he cried as he placed Blanche in a large chair at
the library-table. "Where are they?"

Self-control has a masterful energy when the demand for its exercise is
imperative. The paleness went out of Blanche's face, and a tender light
came into her eyes as she looked up at Whitford and smiled on him with
loving glances.

"Sit down," she said in a firm, low, gentle voice.

The young man felt the force of her will and sat down by her side,
close to the table, on which a number of books were lying.

"I want to show you Dore's illustrations of Don Quixote;" and Blanche
opened a large folio volume.

Whitford had grown more passive. He was having a confused impression
that all was not just right with him, and that it was better to be in
the library looking over books and pictures with Blanche than in the
crowded parlors, where there was so much to excite his gayer feelings.
So he gave himself up to the will of his betrothed, and tried to feel
an interest in the pictures she seemed to admire so much.

They had been so engaged for over twenty minutes, Whitford beginning to
grow dull and heavy as the exhilaration of wine died out, and less
responsive to the efforts