They opened the ball, and many significant comments were made upon the fact. Gaspar Laurence was present. He was deeply engaged for more than two hours in making up his mind whether he should ask Beatrice to dance with him or not--she looked so beautiful, so far above him. Gaspar could not help loving her--that was impossible; the first moment he saw her he was entranced. But his was a humble, hopeless kind of adoration. He would sooner have dreamed of wooing and winning a royal princess than of ever asking Beatrice to be his wife. At length he summoned up courage, and was rewarded by a bright smile and kind words. Poor Gaspar! When the beautiful face was near him, and her hand rested on his shoulder, he thought he must be dreaming. "There," he said, when the dance was over; "I shall not dance again. I should not like to lose the memory of that waltz." "Why not?" she asked, wonderingly. "I must be candid with you," said Gaspar, sadly. "Perhaps my confession is a vain one; but I love you, Miss Earle--so dearly that the ground on which you stand is sacred to me." "That is not a very timid declaration," said Beatrice with a smile. "You are courageous, Mr. Laurence. I have only seen you three times." "It would make no difference," said Gaspar, "whether I had seen you only once, or whether I met you every day. I am not going to pain you, Miss Earle. Think kindly of me--I do not ask more; only remember that living in this world there is one who would stand between you and all peril--who would sacrifice his life for you. You will not forget?" "I will not," said Beatrice, firmly. "Never could I forget such words. I am willing to be your friend--I know how to value you." "I shall be happier with your friendship than with the love of any other woman," said Gaspar, gratefully. Just then Lord Earle came and took Mr. Laurence away. Beatrice stood where he had left her, half screened from sight by the luxuriant foliage and magnificent flowers of a rare American plant. There was a thoughtful, tender expression on her face that softened it into wondrous beauty. She liked Gaspar, and was both pleased and sorry that he loved her. Very pleasant was this delicious homage of love--pleasant was it to know that strong, brave, gifted men laid all they had in the world at her feet--to know that her looks, smiles, and words moved them as nothing else could. Yet she was sorry for Gaspar. It must be sad to give all one's love and expect no return. She would be his friend, but she could never be anything more. She could give him her sincere admiration and esteem, but not her love. The proud, beautiful lips quivered, and the bright eyes grew dim with tears. No, not her love--that was given, and could never be recalled; in all the wide world, from among all men's, Lord Airlie's face stood out clear and distinct. Living or dying, Lord Earle's daughter knew she could care for no other man.