ir back from his forehead, and then began
pacing about the room.

"Rudolph _must_ care--he _shall_ care, if you wish it," he said.

"Oh," I exclaimed, "I didn't mean it was dreadful if he didn't care; but
if you thought _I_ did."

He stopped walking and took one big step that brought him to me.

"You do not?"

"Of course not," said I; "not in _that_ way."

Mr. van Buren caught both my hands, and pressed them so tightly, that I
couldn't help giving a tiny squeak.

"Ah, I have hurt you!" he cried, and a strange expression came into his
eyes. At least, it was strange that it should be for me, instead of
Freule Menela, for it was almost--but no, I must have been mistaken, of
course, in thinking it was like that. Anyway, it was a thrilling
expression, and made my heart beat as fast as if I were frightened,
though I think that wasn't exactly the feeling. I couldn't take my eyes
away from his for a minute. We looked straight at each other; then, as
if he couldn't resist, he kissed my hands one after the other--not with
polite little Dutch kisses, but eager and desperate. As he did it, he
gave a kind of groan, and before I could speak he muttered, "Forgive
me!" as he rushed out of the room.

He must have almost run against Mr. Starr, for the next instant the
"Mariner" (as Jonkheer Brederode calls him) came in, dripping wet.

There was I, all pink and trembling, and my voice did sound odd as I
quavered out, "Where's Nell?"

"Gone to her room," said Mr. Starr, looking hard at me with his
brilliant, whimsical eyes. "I was to tell you----"

With that, I burst into tears.

"Good gracious, poor angel! What is the matter?" he exclaimed, coming
closer.

"I don't know," I sobbed. "But I'm not an angel. I do believe I'm a
very--_wicked_ girl."

"You, wicked? Why?"

"Because--I've got feelings I oughtn't to have."

"And that's why you're crying?"

"I'm not sure. But I just--can't help it."

"I wish I could do something," said he, quite miserably; and I could
smell the wet serge of his sopping coat, though I couldn't see him, for
my hands were over my eyes. I was ashamed of myself, but not as much
ashamed as I would have been with any one else, because of the feeling I
have that Mr. Starr would be so wonderfully nice and sympathetic to
confide in. Not that I have anything to confide.

"Thank you, but you couldn't. Nobody could," I moaned.

"Not even Miss Van Buren?"

"Not now. It's too sad. Something seems to ha