“Am I forgiven?” said Gaston, after a little pause, for the first time smiling a little, and speaking in the clear, sweet tones that she had lately thought the pleasantest in the world. If she thought so still, she denied it to her own heart. “I need hardly say, Mr. Gaston,” she answered, forcing back a sigh, “that as far as I am concerned, you have quite atoned for your treatment of my cousin.” “Then am I reinstated in your favor, great Queen Margaret, and will you give me your royal hand upon it?” He extended his hand, but Margaret quickly clasped hers with its fellow, and dropped them in front of her, while she slowly shook her head. There was none of the bright _naïveté_ so natural to her, in this action; she looked thoughtful and very grave. The young man felt his pulses quicken; he resolved that she should make friends with him, cost what it might. It had become of the very first importance to him that he should be reinstated in that place in her regard which he knew that he had once held, and which he now felt to be so priceless a treasure. “I am still unforgiven, I see,” he said; “but you will at least tell me what is my offence that I may seek to expiate it.” Margaret raised her candid eyes to his and looked at him a moment with a strange expression; doubt, disappointment and glimmering hope were mingled in it. “Shall I be frank with you?” she said, speaking from a sudden impulse. “I should like to, if I dared.” “I shall be distressed if you are not,” he said, almost eagerly. “I beg you to say freely what you have in your mind.” She did not speak at once, but sank into a chair, with a long-drawn respiration that might mean either sadness or relief. When Gaston had brought another chair and placed it close beside her and seated himself, she looked up and met his gaze. In the eyes of both there was the eagerness of youth--in the girl’s a hesitating wistfulness, in the man’s a subdued fire, somewhat strange to them. He was conscious of being deeply stirred, and if he had spoken first his words would probably have betrayed this, but it was Margaret who broke the silence, in tones that were calm and steady, and a little sad. “Mr. Gaston,” she said, turning her eyes away from his face and looking into the fire, “it wouldn’t be worth while, I think, for me to pretend to feel the same toward you, after what has happened; it would be only pretence. Twenty-four hours ago I should have said you were the young man of all my acquaintance whom I felt to be the truest gentleman. I would not say this to your face now, except that it is quite passed.” “I am glad that you have said it--most glad that it was ever so,” he said, with a hurried ardor; “but it is a great height to fall from. And have I indeed fallen?”