“You are going to England!” she exclaimed, with disappointment in her voice. If he were going to England, he could not be a Jew; and if he were not a Jew, he could be nothing to her. She glanced at him with an unspoken question in her eyes, whilst across her bright face flitted an expression of pain. He captured one of her little sunburnt hands, and held it between his own. “You are sorry—Raie?” he said, in a quiet voice. “Tell me the truth.” “Yes, I am sorry.” She glanced away, and refused to meet his gaze. “I can’t help being sorry. You have been so kind to me.” She had never felt so near crying in her life, and yet she could have laughed at her own foolishness. A mist rose before her eyes, and the mountains in the distance seemed blurred. She released her hand, and fumbled for her tiny lace handkerchief. Mr. Merryweather’s features relaxed into an expression of gentleness. “Raie,” he said, with a tender accent on the name, “I am going to England, but I am not bound to stay there. In three months’ time I can be back in Haifa—that is, if you will give me permission to come.” “I?” she exclaimed evasively. “What has it to do with me?” “Everything. If I return to Haifa it will only be for you. Perhaps I have no right to speak to you like this, dear, but I could not go away without declaring myself. Raie, look me in the face and tell me the truth. Do you love me?” He raised her chin gently with his two hands, and brought her face on a level with his own. The girl’s cheeks grew crimson as she looked back into the depths of his eyes. She answered not a word, but he was satisfied. “You do love me,” he said, with conviction. “I can read the answer in your eyes.” There was a moment of silence as he relaxed his hold. The girl was undergoing an inward struggle, and her heart beat fast. She was wondering what the Montellas would think of her secret lover, and what her mother would say. Would they be angry with her, and consider her conduct underhand? Would they approve of one who was presumably a Christian and a wanderer? Would it not be wiser to send him away before it was too late? In less than a minute these suggestions crowded in upon her mind. Mr. Merryweather seemed to guess her thoughts. “I wonder if you love me enough to trust me, dear,” he said slowly. “You have a right to want to know something about the man you intend to marry, but I cannot tell you all about myself just yet. I can assure you, though, that I come of a good family—my father is a baronet; and although I am over thirty, I am a bachelor, and have never had a love-affair. More than this I cannot tell you now, but you shall know everything some day. Until then, will you be content to take me on trust? Will you promise to become my wife?”