er as he stooped? Did she love him still after all? Had Julian
deceived him with the assertion of her acquiescence in the termination
of their engagement? A strange rush of new hope filled his heart. He
would test the true state of her affections.

"I have come," he said, in that tone of voice which was so dear to her
remembrance--"I have come, Violet, to bid you farewell for ever. Since
you have rejected me, I have neither heart nor hope, and I shall leave
England as soon as I may go."

The tears were falling fast from her blue eyes. "Oh, Edward," she said,
"why do you bid me farewell? Do you not think that I love you still?"

"Still, Violet? You love _me_, the ruined, dishonourable, disgraced--
the--" She would not hear the dreadful word, but laid her finger on his
lip.

"Oh, hush, Edward! Those words are not for you. You may have sinned;
they tell me you _have_ sinned. But have you not repented too, Edward?
Have the lessons of sickness and anguish taught you nothing? I am sure
they have. I could not wed one who was living an evil life, but now I
see your true self once more."

"Then you love me still?" The words were uttered in astonishment, and
the emotions of unexpected joy almost overpowered him.

"I never ceased to love you, Edward. Do you think that I am one to
trifle with your heart, or to use it as a plaything for me to triumph
by? Never, never. Had you died, or worse still, had you continued in
sinful ways, I could not even then have ceased to love you, though we
might have been separated until death. But now I read other things in
your face, Edward, and I will be yours--your betrothed--again. Come,
let us join the rest. There is not one of us but will welcome you with
joy."

"Nay, nay, let us stay here for a moment," he cried, as she rose up;
"let me realise the joyful sensation which your words have given me; let
me sit here, Violet, a few moments at your feet, and feel the touch of
your hand in mine, and look at your face, that I may recover strength
again."

They sat there in silence, and the thoughts of both recurred to that
other scene where they had sat on the great boulder under the shadow of
the Alps, and watched the rose-film steal over their white summits on
the golden summer eve. It was the same love that still filled their
souls--the same love, but more sober, more quiet, more like the love of
maturer years, less like the passionate love of boy and girl. It was
mor