Since her father's death Gerald Leigh had written to her several times--letters full of passionate love and penned as if the writer felt sure of her constancy and wish to keep her promise. He, too, was coming to London. Had she wished it, he would at once have come to her side; but as it was he would take up his quarters in town about the same time Eugenia arrived there. The hour was at hand--the hour to which Miss Herbert had for two years looked forward with strangely mingled feelings--when her friends must be told that she intended to marry the young, and as yet unknown sculptor, Gerald Leigh, the son of her father's late tenant farmer, Abraham. She loved him still. She felt sure of that much. If time and absence had somewhat weakened the spell he had thrown over her proud nature, she knew that unless the man was greatly changed the magic of his words and looks would sway her as irresistibly as before. She loved him, yet rebelled against her fate. Her father had died ignorant of what had passed between his daughter and the young artist. Many a time Eugenia had tried to bring herself to confess the truth to him. She now regretted she had not done so. Mr. Herbert's approval or disapproval would have been at least a staff by which to guide her steps. He had suspected nothing. The few letters which passed between the lovers had been unnoticed. Their love was as yet a secret known only to themselves. She loved him, but why had he dared to make her love him? Or, why was he not well-born and wealthy? Could she find strength to face, for his sake, the scorn of her friends? She must decide at once. She is sitting and thinking all these things in her own room at Mrs. Cathcart's, and in front of her lies a letter in which Gerald announces his intention of calling upon her to-morrow. She knows that if she receives him she will be bound to proclaim herself his affianced wife. He called. She saw him. Mrs. Cathcart was out, So Eugenia was alone when the servant announced Mr. Leigh. She started and turned pale. She trembled in every limb as he crossed the room to where she stood. He took her hand and looked into her face. He spoke, and his rich musical voice thrilled her. "Eugenia, is it life or death?" She could not answer. She could not turn her eyes from his. She saw the intensity of their expression deepen; saw a fierce yearning look come into them, a look which startled her. "Is it life or death?" he repeated. His love conquered. "Gerald, it is life," she said. Drunk with joy, he threw his arms around her and kissed her until the blushes dyed her cheeks. He stayed with her as long as she would allow, but his delight was too delicious to permit him to say much about his plans for the future. When at last she made him leave her, he gave her the number of a studio at Chelsea, which he had taken, and she promised to write and let him know when he might call again.