Could it be Joyce? And, if it were, why was she weeping? He must satisfy himself that it was not Joyce. Cautiously he peered round the corner of the temple, glimpsing a pretty hat with no pretty head in it. He craned forward. Upon a stone seat, encircling a round table, sat Joyce. Her face was bowed upon her hands, which lay palm-down wards on the table. Her attitude—the relaxed body, the slender, rounded shoulders, the trembling fingers, were eloquent of overpowering distress. Lionel stood staring at her, petrified by pity and surprise. What had happened to make a dear creature, normally so calm, so serenely mistress of herself, this piteous spectacle? He whispered her name. She raised her head swiftly. Through a mist of tears she beheld the man she loved gazing eagerly at her with the shining eyes of a lover. For a breathless eternity of seconds the spell remained unbroken. Then Lionel sprang at her—ardent, avid, aflame to hear from her lips the silent message of her melting glance. He held her in his arms; he pressed her yielding body to his; he kissed her hair, her brow, her cheeks. She remained passive, almost swooning under this revelation of his feelings and hers. Presently she heard his voice—broken, quavering, almost inarticulate: “Joyce darling, I l-love you. I w-want you more than all the world. And—and you love me, don’t you? Say it—say it quickly, my own sweet Joyce.” Whirled away upon the rapid current of his emotion and her own, twin streams racing together, she whispered the words tremblingly. He took her head between his hands, kissing away a tear, a dew-drop upon dark lashes. “If you love me, Joyce, give me your lips. I want the very breath of your spirit. I didn’t know it, dear, till to-day, but always, always my soul has been yours.” She hesitated. The colour stole back into her pale cheeks. She sought his eyes, delving deep into their honest, clear depths. He met the challenge of that searching glance, holding his head erect. She smiled and kissed him. * * * * * Presently, holding her hand, he asked tenderly: “Why were you crying? What has happened?” She answered simply: “Mr. Moxon asked me to marry him. I like him so much, Lionel. I felt so sorry for him. Then he went away. I knew that he would come back, because, being the man he is, so strong and clever, he couldn’t believe what I said to him. It was my fault. My ‘no’ sounded, I dare say, weak and unconvincing. This afternoon he asked me again. I knew that father wanted it. I—I thought—I—I was so sure that you were utterly beyond me, somebody else’s——” “Heavens! You accepted him!”