r followed as swiftly. Rorie was by Violet's side again in a
minute, with his hand grasping hers.

"You mean that you don't love me?" he exclaimed angrily. "Why could you
not have said so at the first; why have you let me live in a fool's
paradise?"

"The paradise was of your own making," she answered. "I love you a
little for the past, because my father loved you--because you are all
that remains to me of my happy childhood. Yes, if it were not for you,
I might look back and think those dear old days were only a dream. But
I hear your voice, I look at you, and know that you are real, and that
I once was very happy. Yes, Rorie, I do love you--love you--yes, with
all my heart, dearer, better than I have ever loved anyone upon this
earth, since my father was laid in the ground. Yes, dear." Their horses
were walking slowly now; and her hand was locked in his as they rode
side by side. "Yes, dear, I love you too well, and you and I must part.
I had schooled myself to believe that I loved you only as I might have
loved a brother; that you could be Lady Mabel's husband and my true
friend. But that was a delusion--that can never be. You and I must
part, Rorie. This night-ride in the Forest must be our last. Never any
more, by sun or moon, must you and I ride together. It is all over,
Rorie, the old childish friendship. I mean to do my duty, and you must
do yours."

"I will never marry a woman I do not love."

"You will keep your promise to your mother; you will act as a man of
honour should. Think, Rorie, what a shameful thing it would be to do,
to break off an engagement which has been so long publicly known, to
wound and grieve your good aunt and uncle."

"They have been very kind to me," sighed Rorie. "It would hurt me to
give them pain."

His conscience told him she was right, but he was angry with her for
being so much wiser than himself.

Then, in a moment, love--that had slumbered long, idly happy in the
company of the beloved, and had suddenly awakened to know that this
summer-day idlesse meant a passion stronger than death--love got the
better of conscience, and he cried vehemently:

"What need I care for the Duke and Duchess! They can have their choice
of husbands for their daughter; an heiress like Mabel has only to
smile, and a man is at her feet. Why should I sacrifice myself, love,
truth, all that makes life worth having? Do you think I would do it for
the sake of Ashbourne, and the honour of being a du