Had there been danger in those low, earnest accents, Bergan could scarcely have started up more quickly and cautiously, nor have fled from them faster. As he expected and desired, the low boughs closing and rustling behind him, made what followed inaudible. He was loath to hear another word. He felt almost guilty for having heard so much. Those subdued, confidential tones, those quietly spoken Christian names, had, of themselves, been a startling revelation. For, notwithstanding her frank, easy, affable deportment toward those who came within her sphere, Astra Lyte knew well how to hedge herself round with a maidenly dignity that kept familiarity at a distance. She was not the kind of girl whose Christian name finds its way easily to unaccustomed lips. Despite his own residence, for a considerable time, under the same roof, and the frank and friendly intercourse which had grown out of it,--despite, too, the fact that Mrs. Lyte often called him her son, and Cathie was wont to spring to his arms as to those of a brother,--it had never occurred to himself to call her anything less formal than "Miss Lyte." Nor would it have done to Dr. Remy, he felt sure, without the sufficient warrant of a close and tender relation. This premise being established, the conclusion that such a relation existed was unavoidable. And, looking back over the events of the past few weeks, Bergan was amazed to see with what an amount of corroboratory evidence he was unexpectedly furnished. Not only did numberless glances, tones, and actions, bearing directly upon the case, start suddenly into view, but, just as the landscape through which one passes presents new outlines, new features, and a new sentiment, in a backward survey, so these things assumed new faces and a new meaning, in his review of them. Once or twice, of late, it had occurred to him that Astra was scarcely at her ease, in Dr. Remy's presence; he now understood that this constraint came of affection, fearful of betraying itself, and not, as he had imagined, of some newborn distrust or dislike. Anterior to this, he had observed that the doctor's visits to Miss Lyte's studio were much more frequent than formerly, and that he was making an obvious enough attempt to commend himself to her favor by a more cordial and constant interest in her work, as well as by exercising a more careful circumspection over his conversation. His cynicism vanished, or veiled itself, before the rich glow of her enthusiasm. His satire spared her generous ambition. His scepticism, though not less frank, was less hostile and inveterate; and often it resolved itself into a kind of weary and wistful sadness, as if it were less a choice than a misfortune, and would gladly exchange itself for something better, if it only knew how. At such times, Bergan himself was sensible of a singular charm in his conversation, a kind of autumn-night splendor; chill, lustrous moonlight, mystical shadow, and