ng
together. The afternoon was a privileged time; it was devoted by the
elder ladies, who were both invalids, to rest. During that interval Sir
Vane read to Pauline, or they sat under the shadow of the great cliffs,
talking until the two souls were so firmly knit that they could never be
severed again. In the evening they walked on the sands, and the waves
sang to them of love that was immortal, of hope that would never
die--sang of the sweet story that would never grow old.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

PRIDE BROUGHT LOW.

Pauline could have passed her life in the happy dream that had come to
her; she did not go beyond it--the golden present was enough for her.
The full, happy, glorious life that beat in her heart and thrilled in
her veins could surely never be more gladsome. She loved and was
beloved, and her lover was a king among men--a noble, true-hearted
gentleman, the very ideal of that of which she had always dreamed; she
did not wish for any change. The sunrise was blessed because it brought
him to her; the sunset was as dear, for it gave her time to dream of
him. She had a secret longing that this might go on forever; she had a
shy fear and almost child-like dread of words that must be spoken,
seeing that, let them be said when they would, they must bring a great
change into her life.

In this she was unlike Sir Vane; the prize he hoped to win seemed to him
so beautiful, so valuable, that he was in hourly dread lest others
should step in and try to take it from him--lest by some mischance he
should lose that which his whole soul was bent upon winning.

He understood the girlish shyness and sweet fear that had changed the
queenly woman into a timid girl; he loved her all the more for it, and
he was determined to win her if she was to be won. Perhaps she read that
determination in his manner, for of late she had avoided him. She
remained with Miss Hastings, and, when that refuge was denied her, she
sought Lady St. Lawrence; but nothing could shield her long.

"Miss Darrell," said Sir Vane, one afternoon, "I have a poem that I want
to read to you."

She was seated on a low stool at Lady St. Lawrence's feet, her beautiful
face flushing at his words, her eyes drooping with shy, sweet pleasure
that was almost fear.

"Will you not read it to me now, and here?" she asked.

"No; it must be read by the sea. It is like a song, and the rush of the
waves is the accompaniment. Miss Hastings, if you have brought up yo