He spoke in the sharp, disjointed sentences which were—with him—a sign of deep feeling. Raie looked up at him almost piteously, and for the moment knew not how to reply. He was so much older and stronger than herself that she instinctively felt that resistance would be useless; besides, she did not want to resist. But something within urged her not to be rash, and she felt compelled to listen to her conscience. “I do trust you,” she answered, almost inaudibly, “but I cannot promise to become your wife. I owe so much to Lady Montella that I could not—I dare not—engage myself without her consent. You see I believe in you because—because I know that you are good; but in her case it would be so different. I am sure she would not give her consent to our engagement unless she were satisfied that you—that you—oh, I can’t explain, but you know what I mean. And she is so particular that I am afraid she would never allow me to marry away from my religion. I suppose you are—not a Jew?” She studied his features as though their contour would reveal what she sought. He was neither fair nor dark, and his life in the open had lent a ruggedness to his countenance which baffled her completely. Fortunately she was not kept long in suspense. “That objection can be easily dispelled,” he answered, with a slight touch of colour. “I have the right to call myself a Jew.” She gave a sigh of relief. “And yet you are going to England?” she questioned, not yet satisfied. “And—and—Merryweather is not a Jewish name?” He bent down and regarded her steadfastly once more. “Did you not say you would trust me, Raie?” he rejoined, with a touch of reproach. “What if, for a certain grave reason, I have been obliged to change my name? Listen, child,”—his voice became almost stern—“I am a Jew; but for many years past I have made mankind my brethren, the world my country, and God in Nature my religion. When I was a youth I was expelled from home and people for a crime which I never committed, since when I have lived alone. Recently I have had reason to believe that by returning to England I may be able to prove my innocence, and as I have made my fortune out on the goldfields, I shall have the power that money can give. I can tell you no more, perhaps I have told you too much already; but I have made you a most serious confidence. Surely you can trust me in return?” Her face was full of trouble. “I do trust you!” she repeated, with a catch in her breath; “but what you have told me makes it harder still. Unless she knows the whole truth, I know Lady Montella will not consent.” “She must know nothing for the present. Not a word of what I have told you must pass your lips. Raie, my darling, I must insist on this for the sake of us both. Promise me you will not say anything of this.” She promised—but with reluctance, because she hated to have a secret from her foster-aunt.