He sat in one of the deep window-seats, gazing idly at the fading glows of the sunset, dreaming of the night when he had last stood there and struggled against the influence of the girl, who now was all the world to him. And as he looked back and thought on all she had been to him since that night, he wished with all his heart that Time would turn his hour-glass, and let him live those days again. Nay, give him back but three sweet hours again, and he would be content to endure even banishment from her side, with such a memory to soothe his pain. So he mused, concerned not that to many the shadow indeed proves dearer than the substance, nor that he whose memories are tender Is ofttimes happier than he who in the attainment loses the remembrance forever. He was disturbed in his dreaming by the sound of his own name cried softly, and, turning, he found Lady Cicely standing close beside him, her hands tightly clasped, her head half turned away. "Captain Protheroe," she said in a strained voice; "I—I have somewhat to say to you." "To me?" he asked wonderingly. Then catching sudden sight of her face, he started back. "In heaven’s name, Lady Cicely, what is it?" he cried. "Is Mistress Barbara——" "Oh! Barbara is well," interrupted the lady quickly, with the faintest attempt at a smile. "’Tis of yourself I must speak, yourself and me." He placed a chair for her, then took up his position opposite, leaning against the window frame, and looking down on her in wonderment. Then, seeing she hesitated to speak, he asked gravely: "In what have I been so unfortunate as to offend your ladyship?" She glanced up in distress. "Oh! ’tis not that. ’Tis I who have offended you. I have done you grievous wrong.’ "Done me wrong, madame?" he asked, smiling down at her, marvelling at the small troubles with which women love to torment their minds. "Nay, an it be so, madame, ’tis forgiven. Prithee, think no more on’t." "Oh! but I must," she cried wildly; "I have thought on it day and night since ’twas committed; thought on it every moment till I felt I must go mad an I could not see you to confess to’t." "Nay, madame, indeed it was not worth your thought, whatever it be," he answered gallantly. "That you have given me place in your gentle thoughts should be sufficient atonement." But she, covering her face, burst on a sudden into bitter weeping. "Oh, do not talk so!" she cried. "You do not know. You do not know." His face grew grave. He took a step forward and leaned over her in deep distress. "Nay, madame, I entreat you." he said gently; "indeed, you must not weep for such a thing. Come"—he coaxed lightly—"what is this grievous wrong? Why, you could scarce be more distressed had you betrayed me." Then she dropped her hands and faced him. "You have said it," she cried in a dry voice; "’twas indeed I who betrayed you." He started from her and stood upright, looking down on her in amazement, in slowly gathering wrath.