"We need not wait for fame and fortune, Leslie. Take me with you now." For a minute Leslie Dane could not speak. She waited, _patiently_ for her, laying her hands in his, and looking up into his face with eyes beautiful enough to lead a man's heart astray and bewilder his reason. "My child," he said, presently, "I wish that I might do so, but you know not what you ask. You have been reared in the lap of luxury and pride. You could not live through the deprivation and poverty I must endure before I conquer success." "I could bear anything better than the separation from you, Leslie," said the poor child, who had but the faintest idea what those two words, "poverty and privation," meant. "You think so, dear," said the artist, "because you do not know the meaning of poverty; but adversity would wither and destroy you as quickly as some hot-house blossom would die when transplanted to regions of ice and snow. No, darling, I am too proud to take you now in my obscurity and poverty. Let us wait until the name I can give you shall be an honor to wear." "It must be so if you wish it, Leslie," she answered, sadly; "but, oh, how can I bear the long separation when I love you so devotedly?" "It will not be for long, dearest--two or three years at best. The time will pass quickly to you in your happy home, under the devoted care of your Uncle Francis--only you must not permit him to alienate your affections from me, for that I am sure is his present intention." She was silent, resting her head against his supporting arm, and passing her small hand wearily over her brow as if to dispel some gathering mist from her sight. The solemn, mystical sound of the foam-capped waves breaking silently on the shore seemed strangely pathetic to her ears. They had never sounded so sad before. "Darling, of what are you thinking?" he asked, gently. She started and shivered, lifting her white face up to his with a look that nearly broke his heart, it was so pitifully pathetic. He had never seen anything but happiness on that beautiful face. Why had he won her love only to plant the thorns of sorrow in that fond and trusting heart? "Leslie, dear," she said, in a strangely altered voice, "do you believe in presentiments?" He started at the words. "Bonnibel," he answered, "I hardly know whether I do or not. It would be very superstitious to believe in such things, would it not? And yet may not a merciful Providence sometimes vouchsafe us warnings of things, as the Scotch say, 'beyond our ken'? My darling, why did you ask me that strange question?" He took her little trembling hand in his and looked searchingly into her face. "Leslie," she said, "I have such a strange feeling. Perhaps you will laugh at it. I should have laughed at it myself two hours ago." "Tell me, dear," he pleaded; "I will not even smile." She looked up with something like awe shining in her large eyes.