"You see there' won't be much trouble with him," says Baltimore, when the boy has run out of the room in pursuit of oranges. "It will take him a day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won't sign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go and tell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look them over." He walks quickly down the room, opens the door, and closes it after him. CHAPTER LVII. "This is that happy morn-- That day, long-wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates my hopes betray) Which, purely white, deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark." He has not, however, gone three yards down the corridor when the door is again opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him: "Baltimore!" Her tone is sharp, high-agonized--the tone of one strung to the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. She is standing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasping the woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even so frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws her bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the hand he can best spare. "What is it?" says he, looking down at her. She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a chair behind her. "Don't go," says she, hoarsely. It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently down below, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is as white as death. "How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. "Do you know what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do not comprehend what your words mean." "Stay! Stay for his sake." "Is that all?" says he, his eyes searching hers. "For mine, then." The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands and stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable--confessed. "For yours!" He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold--cold as death. His is burning. "You have given a reason for my staying, indeed," says he. "But what is the meaning of it?" "This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and showing him her shamed and grief-stricken face. "I am a coward! In spite of everything I would not have you go--so far!" "I see. I understand," he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foul lie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But you will not believe." There, is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seem wrapt in thought--in silence--he still holding her hand.