And Heathcote saw, standing there before him, a young girl with her fair face strangely pale and worn, her eyes fixed, her lips compressed; she was trembling slightly and constantly, in spite of the rigidity of her attitude. He looked at her in silence for a moment; then, knocking down at one blow all the barriers she had erected, he came to her and took her cold hands in his. "What is it she has said to you?" he asked. She drew herself away without speaking. "What has Helen said to you? Has she told you that I have deceived you? That I have played a part?" But Anne did not answer; she turned, as if to pass him. "You shall not leave me," he said, barring the way. "Stay a moment, Anne; I promise not to keep you long. You will not? But you shall. Am _I_ nothing in all this? My feelings nothing? Let me tell you one thing: whatever Helen may have said, remember that it was all before I knew--_you_." Anne's hands shook in his as he said this. "Let me go," she cried, with low, quick utterance; she dared not say more, lest her voice should break into sobs. "I will not," said Heathcote, "until you hear me while I tell you that I have _not_ played a false part with you, Anne. I did begin it as an experiment, I confess that I did; but I have ended by being in earnest--at least to a certain degree. Helen does not know me entirely; one side of me she has never even suspected." "Mrs. Lorrington has not spoken on the subject," murmured Anne, feeling compelled to set him right, but not looking up. "Then what _has_ she said about me, that you should look as you do, my poor child?" "You take too much upon yourself," replied the girl, with an effort to speak scornfully. "Why should you suppose we have talked of you?" "I do not suppose it; I know it. I have not the heart to laugh at you, Anne: your white face hurts me like a sharp pain. Will you at least tell me that you do not believe I have been amusing myself at your expense--that you do not believe I have been insincere?" "I am glad to think that you were not wholly insincere." "And you will believe also that I like you--like you very, very much, with more than the ordinary liking?" "That is nothing to me." "Nothing to you? Look at me, Anne; you shall look once. Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not help loving you? And that you--love me also?" As he spoke he drew her close and looked down into her eyes, those startled violet eyes, that met his at last--for one half-moment. Then she sprang from him, and burst into tears. "Leave me," she said, brokenly. "You are cruel." "No; only human," answered Heathcote, not quite master of his words now. "I have had your confession in that look, Anne, and you shall never regret it." "I regret it already," she cried, passionately; "I shall regret it all my life. Do you not comprehend? can you not understand? I am engaged--engaged to be married. I was engaged before we ever met."