is not going," he said quietly.

Then MacLeod laughed. The morning was hurrying by and this vaporing was
a hindrance to be shuffled off. "You say you love my daughter?" he
remarked, with a veiled meaning in the tone. "What then? You don't
propose to marry her?" The tone said further, "You don't tell me you
propose to marry anybody?"

"I only said I loved her," returned Osmond simply. "I thought it would
be well for you to know that. It seemed fairer."

MacLeod smiled again, as if he were smiling down on something. Osmond
opened the door, knowing where he should find her. She was there at the
end of the hall, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, her hands in
her lap, her head bent sweetly as she listened. She was pale, and there
was terror in her face. As Osmond read that, his own passion quieted,
and he spoke with perfect gentleness:--

"Rose, will you come here?"

She obeyed at once, and they three were in the room together and Osmond
had closed the door. He put out his hand to her, and without hesitation
she gave him hers.

"Rose," he said, "I have been telling your father you will not go back
with him."

Her eyes dilated. Her lips parted eagerly.

"I have said I would," she began; but he forestalled her.

"I have forbidden it, Rose. I have told him I forbid it."

His touch on her hand seemed to be leading her, drawing her into his own
breast. They looked at each other, and both forgot the other presence in
the room. The color came back slowly to her cheeks, and Osmond's eyes
filled with tears.

"Answer, dear," he said, with the same gentleness. "Let me hear you
answer."

"Very well," she returned, like a gentle child. "Shall I go now,
Osmond?"

He led her to the door, opened it, and closed it after her. Then he
glanced at his adversary. MacLeod had sunk into a chair and was sitting
astride it, his chin bowed upon its back. He looked terror-stricken. One
hand held a little box, and he was tendering it to Osmond.

"Open it," he gasped. "Crush one in your handkerchief. Let me smell it."

Osmond ignorantly but deftly did it, and held the handkerchief to
MacLeod's face. MacLeod breathed at it greedily. He lifted his left hand
as if it were half useless to him. "Rub it," he said savagely. "Wring it
off. Such pain! my God, such pain!"

In a moment more the attack was over, and he looked like an old man,
inexplicably ravaged. Osmond's question sprang impetuously.

"Is it--excitement?"

MacLeod sm