th
burning kisses, till she drew them from him with the entreaty: "No, no;
forbear, I entreat you. No--not now."

"Yes, now, at this very moment--or, if not, when?" he asked vehemently.
"But here, in this garden--you are right, this is no place for two human
beings so happy as we are. Come with me; come into the house and lead
the way to a spot where we may be unseen and unheard, alone with each
other and our happiness."

"No, no, no!" she hastily put in, pressing her hand to her aching brow.
"Come with me to the bench under the sycamore; it is shady there, and
you can tell me everything, and hear once more how entirely love has
taken possession of me."

He looked in her face, surprised and disappointed; but she turned
towards the sycamore and sat down beneath it. He slowly followed her.
She signed to him to take a seat by her side, but he stood up in front
of her, saying sadly and despondently.

"Always the same--always calm and cold. Is this fair, Paula? Is this
the overwhelming love of which you spoke? Is this your response to the
yearning cry of a passionately ardent heart? Is this all that love can
grant to love--that a betrothed owes to her lover on the very eve of
parting?"

At this she looked up at him, deeply distressed, and said in
pathetically urgent entreaty: "O Orion, Orion! Have I not told you, can
you not see and feel how much I love you? You must know and feel it; and
if you do, be content, I entreat. You, whom alone I love, be satisfied
to know that this heart is yours, that your Paula--your own Paula, for
that indeed I am--will think of nothing, care for nothing, pray and
entreat Heaven for nothing but you, yes you, my own, my all."

"Then come, come with me," he insisted, "and grant your betrothed the
rights that are his due.

"Nay, not my betrothed--not yet," she besought him, with all the
fervor of her tortured soul. "In my veins too the blood flows warm with
yearning. Gladly would I fly to your arms and lay my head against yours,
but not to-day can I become your betrothed, not yet; I cannot, I dare
not!"

"And why not? Tell me, at any rate, why not," he cried indignantly,
clenching his fist to his breast. "Why will you not be my bride, if
indeed it is true that you love me? Why have you invented this new and
intolerable torment?"

"Because prudence tells me," she replied in a low, hurried voice, while
her bosom heaved painfully, as though she were afraid to hear her own
words; "because