There were hours--silent, brooding hours of the night--when he was sorely tempted to defy past and future alike, and, despite the conditions surrounding himself, to rescue her from a life which could have in store for her nothing but bitterness and sorrow. But with the dawn his better judgment returned; conscience, inexorable as ever, still held sway; he kept his own counsel as in duty bound, going his way with a heart that grew heavier day by day, and was hence glad of an opportunity to return once more to the seclusion of the mountains. Kate, realizing that all further appeal to her father was useless, as a last resort trusted to Walcott's sense of honor, that, when he should fully understand her feelings towards himself, he would discontinue his attentions. But in this she found herself mistaken. Taking advantage of the courtesy which she extended to him in accordance with the promise given her father, he pressed his suit more ardently than ever. "Why do you persist in annoying me in this manner?" she demanded one day, indignantly withdrawing from his attempted caresses. "The fact that my father has given you his permission to pay attention to me does not warrant any such familiarity on your part." "Perhaps not," Walcott replied, in his low, musical tones, "but stolen waters are often sweetest. If I have offended, pardon. I supposed my love for you would justify me in offering any expression of it, but since you say I have no right to do so, I beg of you, my dear Miss Underwood, to give me that right." "That is impossible," Kate answered, firmly. "Why impossible?" he asked. "Because I will not accept any expressions of a love that I cannot reciprocate." "Love begets love," he argued, softly; "so long as you keep me at arm's length you have no means of knowing whether or not you could reciprocate my affection. Mr. Underwood has done me the great honor to consent to bestow his daughter's hand upon me, and I have no doubt of yet winning the consent of the lady herself if she will but give me a fair chance." "Mr. Walcott," said Kate, her eyes ablaze with indignation, "would you make a woman your wife who did not love you--who never could, under any circumstances, love you?" Walcott suddenly seized her hands in his, looking down into her eyes with his steady, dominant gaze. "If I loved her as I love you," he said, slowly, "I would make her my wife though she hated me,--and win her love afterwards! I can win it, and I will!" "Never!" Kate exclaimed, passionately, but he had kissed her hands and was gone before she could recover herself. In that look she had for the first time comprehended something of the man's real nature, of the powerful brute force concealed beneath the smooth, smiling exterior. Her heart seemed seized and held in a vise-like grip, while a cold, benumbing despair settled upon her like an incubus, which she was unable to throw off for days.