“It was a slip of the tongue, Marcel, dear. A mere matter of habit. I will learn to call you anything you please, so that I may make you happy,” she answered, affectionately. “And you will let me hope—you will let me hope—that some day, not far off, you will give yourself to me entirely; you will be my own, my precious, my pearl beyond price, my best gift of God—MY WIFE?” he breathed, in low, deep, intense tones, while his whole dark face grew radiant with happiness. He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. She drew her hand away, averted her head and shrank from him. “My timid one, what are you afraid of?” he tenderly inquired, drawing nearer to her, and attempting gently to steal his arm around her waist, for he still fatally misunderstood her. “Don’t, uncle, don’t! This is madness! This is sacrilege!” she exclaimed, withdrawing herself from his gentle caress. “I am not timid, uncle; but don’t do that again, or you will drive me out of your sight forever,” she added, as she walked away to a distant window, and stood there, pale and trembling, looking out, but seeing nothing. Marcel de Crespigney remained where she had left him, leaning back into his chair, with his eyes fixed upon the fire—like hers, seeing nothing. He did not attempt to follow her to apologize or explain. He was sorely perplexed. After a few moments, when she had had time to compose herself, she came back to her seat and said: “When I ran away from you this morning, I was too much shocked and distracted to understand anything rightly, or to know what to do. But after I had come to myself I began to reflect, and, at length, I comprehended——” She paused, as if to think a little longer. “Yes, dear; I know, I know. I will give you time. I will be very patient,” he replied, very gently and contentedly, for he still widely misinterpreted her. She did not know that he did so misinterpret her, and thus they were unconsciously at cross-purposes. “And,” slowly continued the girl, “as soon as I comprehended, I resolved to come to you and tell you something that I have determined upon, and which I think will harmonize our lives, and make us both happy.” “Yes, love, yes, speak freely, speak plainly!” he breathed hardly, suppressing every impulse to draw nearer to her, or to touch her hand that hung so near his, over the arm of her chair. “Well, then, Marcel, dear—oh! it is difficult to speak of marriage, even negatively, as I shall!—but, Marcel, I know you have been thinking that some day I might, as other young folks do, marry and leave my home for another; and so, to prevent me from doing that, you dreamed of the impossible plan you proposed to me——” “‘Impossible,’ Gloria?” he repeated, as his happy face gloomed and darkened. “Yes, ‘impossible,’ because insane, profane, sacrilegious! Oh, I cannot bear to think of it! Do not compel me to think of it—even negatively—after this!” “Gloria!” he cried, in a tone of pain and reproach.