"I have forgiven you," he answered gravely.

She made a slight, shy movement, and he took his hand from her head. But in an instant impulsively she caught at it, drawing it down against her burning face.

"And you are not angry with me any more?" she murmured.

"No," he said again.

She was silent for a s.p.a.ce, not moving, still tightly holding his hand.

He could not see her face, nor did he seek to do so. Perhaps he feared to scare away her new-found courage.

At length, in a very small voice, she broke the silence.

"Piet!"

He leaned forward.

"What is it, Anne?"

He could feel her breath quick and short upon his hand. She seemed to be making a supreme effort.

"Piet!" she said again.

"I am listening," he responded, with absolute patience.

She turned one cheek slightly towards him.

"If I loved anybody," she said, rather incoherently, "I--I'd find some way of letting them know it."

He leaned his head once more upon his hand.

"I am a rough beast, Anne," he said sadly. "My love-making only hurts you."

Nan was silent again for a little, but she still held fast to his hand.

"Were you," she asked hesitatingly at length, "were you--making love to me--that night?"

"After my own savage fashion," he said.

"Well," she said, a slight quiver in her voice, "it didn't hurt me, Piet."

Piet was silent.

"I mean," she said, gathering courage, "if--if I had known that it meant just that, I--well, I shouldn't have minded so much."

Still Piet was silent. His hand shaded his eyes, but she knew that he was watching her.

"Do you understand?" she asked him doubtfully.

"No," he said.

"Don't you--don't you know what I want you to do?" she said, rather Breathlessly.

"No," he said again.

"Must I--tell you?" she asked, with a gasp.

"I think you must," he said, in his grave way.

She lifted her head abruptly. Her eyes were very big and shining. She stretched her hands out to him with a little, quivering laugh.

"I hate you for making me say it!" she declared, with a vehemence half pa.s.sionate, half whimsical. "Piet, I--I want you--to--to--take me in your arms again, and--and--kiss me--as you did--that night."

The last words were uttered from his breast, though she never knew how she came to be there. It was as though a whirlwind had caught her away from the earth into a sunlit paradise that was all her own--a paradise in which fear had no place. And the chain against which she had chafed so long and bitterly had turned to links of purest gold.

The Consolation Prize

"So you don't want to marry me?" said Earl Wyverton.

He said it by no means bitterly. There was even the suggestion of a smile on his clean-shaven face. He looked down at the girl who stood before him, with eyes that were faintly quizzical. She was bending at the moment to cut a tall Madonna lily from a sheaf that grew close to the path. At his quiet words she started and the flower fell.

He stooped and picked it up, considered it for a moment, then slipped it into the basket that was slung on her arm.

"Don't be agitated," he said, gently. "You needn't take me seriously--unless you wish."

She turned a face of piteous entreaty towards him. She was trembling uncontrollably. "Oh, please, Lord Wyverton," she said, earnestly, "please, don't ask me! Don't ask me! I--I felt so sure you wouldn't."

"Did you?" he said. "Why?"

He looked at her with grave interest. He was a straight, well-made man; but his kindest friends could not have called him anything but ugly, and there were a good many who thought him formidable also. Nevertheless, there was that about him--an honesty and a strength--which made up to a very large extent for his lack of other attractions.

"Tell me why," he said.

"Oh, because you are so far above me," the girl said, with an effort.

"You must remember that. You can't help it. I have always known that you were not in earnest."

"Have you?" said Lord Wyverton, smiling a little. "Have you? You seem to have rather a high opinion of me, Miss Neville."