“You will think differently after a while,” he said, “and then----” The man was piqued by her perfect insensibility to the honour he had done her. But before he uttered the threat which came to his lips, better feelings came over him. “Yes, Innocent,” he said, “I made a mistake; I have been premature. But now listen to me. If ever you change your mind--if ever you wish to go away--if the time should come when you may be glad to think you have another home ready for you, and some one who loves you--then will you think of me? I will not be angry if you will promise this.” “Oh, yes,” she cried gladly. “Yes, I will promise. I will think of you; I will run to you. It is not likely,” she added, half to herself, “that they will send me away, or that I shall wish to go; but if----” “In that case you will come to me?” “Yes, directly. I will remember. I promise--faithfully, faithfully!” The vague look brightened up into warmer intelligence as she held out her hand to him. I am not sure that the intelligence suited the face so well as its usual passive visionariness. This gleam of light made her more like a child than she had ever been before. Sir Alexis rose gravely, and, stooping over her, kissed her forehead. She shrank a hair’s breadth; but yet received the salute gravely too, without a blush, looking at him with a wondering endeavour to investigate his countenance. He could not be angry since he gave her this sign of amity. As for the discomfited lover himself, he took his hat, and went away very gravely, disappointed it is true, but touched and rendered serious, he could not quite tell how. He did not feel like a man who had been refused, but rather like one who had rashly thrust the vulgar questions of life into some mysterious intermediate region between earth and heaven. He had spoken earthly language to a creature, half idiot, half angel, whose spotless mind had no thoughts or impulses in it which could make it possible for her to understand him. He was half ashamed of himself, half solemnized as by a vision. As this impression wore off, however, which it did in time, Sir Alexis was not discouraged. He could not have her now; but one day he would have her, and his love was not of the hotly passionate kind which cannot wait. Perhaps, indeed, he wanted Innocent only as he would have wanted a lovely picture, a rare flower. He had never seen any one the least like her, and he did not require a helpmate or a companion; it was a supreme luxury, the rarest he could think of, that he wanted. And with such sentiments a man, especially when he is fifty, may be content to wait.