ou refused me, you did not
like to dance with any one else. I saw it all. Will you deny that it
was so?"

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!" Poor girl! She did not know what to say; how to
shape her speech into indifference; how to assure him that he made
himself out to be of too much consequence by far; how to make it
plain that she had not danced because there was no one there worth
dancing with. Had she been out for a year or two, instead of being
such a novice, she would have accomplished all this in half a dozen
words. As it was, her tell-tale face confessed it all, and she was
only able to ejaculate, "Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"

"When I went there last night," he continued, "I had only one
wish--one hope. That was, to see you pleased and happy. I knew it was
your first ball, and I did so long to see you enjoy it."

"And so I did, till--"

"Till what? Will you not let me ask?"

"Mamma said something to me, and that stopped me from dancing."

"She told you not to dance with me. Was that it?"

How was it possible that she should have had a chance with him;
innocent, young, and ignorant as she was? She did not tell him in
words that so it had been; but she looked into his face with a glance
of doubt and pain that answered his question as plainly as any words
could have done.

"Of course she did; and it was I that destroyed it all. I that should
have been satisfied to stand still and see you happy. How you must
have hated me!"

"Oh, no; indeed I did not. I was not at all angry with you. Indeed,
why should I have been? It was so kind of you, wishing to dance with
me."

"No; it was selfish--selfish in the extreme. Nothing but one thing
could excuse me, and that excuse--"

"I'm sure you don't want any excuse, Mr. Fitzgerald."

"And that excuse, Clara, was this: that I love you with all my heart.
I had not strength to see you there, and not long to have you near
me--not begrudge that you should dance with another. I love you with
all my heart and soul. There, Lady Clara, now you know it all."

The manner in which he made his declaration to her was almost fierce
in its energy. He had stopped in the pathway, and she, unconscious
of what she was doing, almost unconscious of what she was hearing,
had stopped also. The mare, taking advantage of the occasion, was
cropping the grass close to them. And so, for a few seconds, they
stood in silence.

"Am I so bold, Lady Clara," said he, when those few seconds had gone
by--"Am I so