"I don't suppose it is of very much consequence," says he, alluding to the message. He is looking at her, though her averted face leaves him little to study. "You are cold," says he abruptly. "Am I?" turning to him with a little smile. "I don't feel cold. I feel dull, perhaps, but nothing else." And in truth if she had used the word "unhappy" instead of "dull" she would have been nearer the mark. The coming of Dysart thus suddenly into the midst of her mournful reverie has but served to accentuate the reality of it. A terrible sense of loneliness is oppressing her. All things have their place in this world, yet where is hers? Of what account is she to anyone? Barbara loves, her; yes, but not so well as Freddy and the children! Oh, to be first with someone! "I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown; I find no nest, while nests are in the grove; Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone-- My heart that breaketh for a little love." Christina Rosetti's mournful words seem to suit her. Involuntarily she lifts her heavy eyes, tired of the day's weeping, and looks at Dysart. "You have been crying," says he abruptly. CHAPTER LII. "My love has sworn with sealing kiss With me to live--to die; I have at last my nameless bliss-- As I love, loved am I." There is a pause: it threatens to be an everlasting one, as Miss Kavanagh plainly doesn't know what to say. He can see this; what he cannot see is that she is afraid of her own voice. Those troublesome tears that all day have been so close to her seem closer than ever now. "Beauclerk came down to see you to-day," says he presently. This remark is so unexpected that it steadies her. "Yes," she says, calmly enough, but without raising the tell-tale eyes. "You expected him?" "No." Monosyllables alone seem possible to her. So great is her fear that she will give way and finally disgrace herself, that she forgets to resent the magisterial tone be has adopted. "He asked you to marry him, however?" There is something almost threatening in his tone now, as if he is defying her to deny his assertion. It overwhelms her. "Yes," she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretched meagreness of her replies. "Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolate monosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination. "Well?" says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on the wooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is So close to her now that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. "What am I to understand by that? Tell me how you have decided." Getting no answer to this either, he says, impatiently, "Tell me, Joyce." "I refused him," says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort of way, as if the matter is one of indifference to her. "Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand on hers as it lies on the top of the woodwork. "Quite true."