"No, certainly not. If a man did not love me enough to wait a few months for his answer I should think myself well rid of him. Besides it would give me a chance to study him." "Suppose--but no--I do ask you. Miss Dora--Dora--I love you madly, passionately, and----" "Well, don't say any more. If that is true, and you love me madly, passionately, why then you will surely wait till January for your answer." This was said rather curtly, and Mr. Thauret's hopes sank, but rose again to fever heat as she said, very softly: "There, I did not mean to hurt you. You must not think me hard. But I must win that wager. Not so much for the money as for the gratification of proving to Bob that I have some control over myself. Surely, if you truly love me you will not begrudge me that satisfaction?" "No, no, sweet one. Have your own way. I'll wait. Only say that there is some chance of my succeeding." "Why, of course, every one has a chance. But I must not tell you how great yours is, because if I did I would not be winning my bet fairly. And I must say good-night," with which she left him. Her last words lingered with him, and he took comfort. For what could she mean but that his chances were good, since if otherwise, how could the telling prevent her from winning her wager? Nevertheless, as the weeks went on, he tried many times to get a more definite reply from her, but never succeeded. Still he hugged the cherished hope to his heart and waited as patiently as man could. Randolph was simply miserable all the time. Whenever he was with Dora she was good to him, kind to him, and often used tender tones that thrilled his heart. But he too failed to get anything from her, save the old request that he should be patient and wait. He too waited, but not patiently.