But the crisis was fast approaching. It happened on a morning near the last of January. The guardian and ward left the breakfast-room; he had his hand on the knob of the library-door, and she was on her way out for a walk, when he called her, and begged her to come in and sit with him for a little while. The meekness of this prayer moved her to grant the boon. Without a word she turned and followed him into the library. He threw himself, with a sigh, into his great leathern arm-chair, beside his writing-table. She drew forward a low ottoman and seated herself at his feet, as she had loved to do in the quiet, peaceful days they had spent together, just after her return home. There was something now in his face and manner so broken, subdued, resigned, as to touch her deeply with tender compassion, and draw her into demonstrations of sympathy and affection that soon deprived him of all self-control. Before he was aware, he reached down his hands, caught her up in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and pressed passionate kisses upon eyes, cheeks and lips, while speechless, breathless, she struggled and fluttered like a captured bird, until, at length, she broke away and fled from him. He sat where she had left him, grieved and angered with himself for having shocked and distressed her whom he loved better than his own life; he cursed himself and his weakness and his folly as he had never done before! He resolved that henceforth he would put such a guard upon himself as never to offend her again, by word or look. He would not intrude upon her in any way; but when he should see her again he would humbly express his contrition and sorrow for having offended her, and would earnestly beg her forgiveness. And she would forgive him; for, after all, what great wrong had he done? Only kissed her against her will; kissed her rather roughly, perhaps, but that was because she resisted him. What great offence was in that? he asked himself. Had he not seen in the parlor games of forfeits played in many a country house—had he not seen young men “pick cherries,” as they called it—run after a young girl and catch and kiss her by force, if not against her will, and been punished only by a slap on the face, administered with a laugh? “Gloria is too fastidious, too morbid,” he said to himself. Yet somehow he could not so excuse himself to his own conscience. Gloria was pure, dainty and refined, and he was very culpable in his conduct toward her, his conscience told him. Now he resolved that he would ask her pardon, and after obtaining it he would be more discreet and respectful in his manner towards her until his love and patience should win her to be his wife. TOO LATE. Marcel de Crespigney was never in his life again permitted to look on the face of Gloria de la Vera. CHAPTER XVI GLORIA’S RAGE