"You would have me believe in good only," says she. "You assure me very positively that all the best virtues are still riding to and fro, redeeming the world, with lances couched and hearts on fire. But where to find them? In you?" It is a very gentle smile she gives him as she says this. "Yes: so far, at least, as you are concerned," says he, stoutly. "I shall be true and honest to you so long as my breath lives in my body. So much I can swear to." "Well," says she, with a rather meagre attempt at light-heartedness, "you almost persuade me with that truculent manner of yours into believing in you at all events, or is it," a little sadly, "that the ways of others drive me to that belief? Well," with a sigh, "never mind how it is, you benefit by it, any way." "I don't want to force your confidence," says Dysart; "but you have been made unhappy by somebody, have you not?" "I have not been made happy," says she, her eyes on the ground. "I don't know why I tell you that. You asked a hard question." "I know. I should have been silent, perhaps, and yet----" At this moment the sound of approaching footsteps coming up the steps startles them. "Joyce!" says he, "grant me one request." "One! You rise to tragedy!" says she, as if a little amused in spite of the depression under which she is so evidently laboring. "Is it to be your last, your dying prayer?" "I hope not. Nevertheless I would have it granted." "You have only to speak," says she, with a slight gesture that is half mocking, half kindly. "Come with me after luncheon, to-morrow, up to St. Bridget's Hill?" "Is that all? And to throw such force into it. Yes, yes; I shall enjoy a long walk like that." "It is not because of the walk that I ask you to go there with me," says Dysart, the innate honesty that distinguishes him compelling him to lay bare to her his secret meaning. "I have something to say to you. You will listen?" "Why should I not?" returns she, a little pale. He might, perhaps, have said something further, but that now the footsteps sound close at hand. A glance towards the door that leads from the fragrant night into the still more perfumed air within reveals to them two figures. Mr. Beauclerk and Miss Maliphant come leisurely forward. The blood receding to Joyce's heart leaves her cold and singularly calm. CHAPTER XVI. "Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight." "Life, I know not what thou art."