lled forth
involuntarily, but were wholly inexcusable. I forgot my birth and
position, and was punished accordingly. Pride has kept me silent ever
since. Pride has prevented my saying that I am sorry now that I so
forgot myself then, and pride has made me cold and reserved to you, when
I saw clearly that you wished to be my friend, and have since proved
yourself such. Will you forgive me?'

Freda did not, as when they once before stood beneath that huge oak,
draw herself up to her full height, and make an indignant answer. She
trembled, and glanced very timidly into the face that looked down upon
hers. There, in the cold moonlight, with the icicles hanging from the
old tree, and the frost-spirit hovering near, she read that face more
truly than she had done in the genial summer moonshine, and wished those
words had never been spoken. She said, gently but decidedly,--

'Mr Rowland, it is I, not you who ought to crave forgiveness. You did me
an honour of which I was not deserving, and, therefore, I could not
appreciate it. I have repented of those proud words almost ever since. I
am heartily ashamed of them, and beg you to try to forget that they were
ever uttered.'

Once more there was a momentary silence, then Rowland said firmly,--

'Miss Gwynne, you must understand that I only regret the boldness of my
conduct, and that I did not conceal my feelings from you as from the
rest of the world. I do not regret the feelings; do not apologise for
them. They were my own, engendered by nature and circumstances, given me
by God, as part of my portion of trial in this world; they grew with me
from childhood, ever since I used to play with you at the vicarage--they
were fostered by your father's kindness and my own self-esteem, as well
as by your presence, which I ought to have fled; they are with me still,
have never left me, will be my weakness and my strength so long as this
earthly warfare lasts.'

'And is it really so?' said Freda, a large tear glittering in the eyes
into which the moon, the frost-spirit, and Rowland were equally looking.

Two hands were tightly clasped that had hitherto scarcely dared to touch
each other; two hearts were for ever united, that hitherto had been as
far estranged as Vesuvius and the icebergs.

I know that many cynical and sentimental readers will ask if there is no
danger of the pair of lovers taking cold on an evening in January,
whilst thus mutually discovering the 'eternal passion' in