My heart smote me with despair and an icy coldness seized me; a lump arose in my throat that seemed to choke my breathing. My hopes seemed dashed to the ground, my idol shattered and a mass of chaotic ruin. I tried to withdraw, but had advanced too far, for she saw me and there was a slight additional flush on her countenance, and gentle recognition in her eyes. I advanced to the shadow of the arbour and bowed low, humbled with my previous thought, yet persistent and determined to know the truth once and for all. "Mistress Alice Vivian,--Mistress Alice, I am Andrew Trembath, who has loved you all these years. You called me your knight once and gave me reason to hope that you were not indifferent to my feelings for you. But there was a bar, sinister and heavy, between us,--the stain of treason against our name. Now all bars have been removed; our name is honourable; no wealth is a hindrance. You have been my dream throughout my boyhood days and the star of my wanderings in more mature years, and I lay my hand and heart at your feet." She answered not, and I feared to lift my eyes lest I should read what I half suspected from that brief, murmured exclamation I had heard, that there was another. Despair seized me at her continued silence. "You were expecting some one?" "Yes," she said, meditatively. "And you love him,--him?" How bold was that question! I know not now whether I feared more her rebuke or the proof of my agonizing doubt. "Yes," she said gently, and I thought pityingly. I arose, staggered, and would have fallen but for the friendly support of a tree. Better to have perished with brave Dick in the floods of the Rough Water than to have my love thus wrenched from my heart and my cherished longing prove a vain delusion. I recollect the substance of my rambling, half incoherent apology for disturbing her. Oh! How empty heart, earth, life appeared then! The sun had gone down, and with it the sun of happiness for me! I turned to go. "Ande,--Mr. Trembath." There was something commanding in that tone that I could not resist. I paused and waited for her to continue. "Is it not unseemly for old friends to part thus. Here, seat yourself with me in this arbour." I moodily did so. "I cannot say how glad I am to greet once more a friend of my childhood days. You have been a true friend to me." What a bitter mockery those words seemed to me. I was silent and she continued: "You have been a true friend and I cannot choose but to speak plainly. But tell me of your life and wanderings."