She turned around, and in a minute more she saw him coming forward to speak to her. A start, and she recovered herself enough to speak to him, but her voice faltered, and the little hand, as it touched his, was deadly cold. It was like the old, sad song: "We met--'twas in a crowd, And I thought he would shun me, He came, I could not breathe, For his eyes were upon me, He spoke--his words were cold, Though his smile was unaltered-- I knew how much he felt, For his deep-toned voice faltered." She did not know what he was saying to her, or what she murmured in reply. She could realize nothing clearly but the ecstatic consciousness of his presence, that had such power to thrill her whole being. Then she found herself slipping into a seat by Helen, and twining her cold fingers in those of her friend. They turned the conversation cleverly away from her, but in a very few moments George Fox got up and left the room, saying as he went: "I will get those specimens we were talking about, Ralph." Ten minutes later he called down the stairs: "Helen, will you please come up and help me find those things I brought from Palestine for Ralph?" "George can never find anything without my assistance," laughed the young girl, as she excused herself and left the room. The unhappy lovers were alone together--perhaps by the clever scheming of George and Helen, perhaps by chance; who could tell? There ensued a moment of intense embarrassment. Kathleen, sitting with down-dropped eyes, felt her lover's eager brown eyes upon her, and a deep blush arose to her beautiful face. Slowly she raised her bashful eyes and they met his--deep, passionate, reproachful, beseeching, all in one. In spite of herself, her own gaze replied to that look--answered love for love. A moment, and he rose and came toward her. She thrilled with ecstasy as he sat down by her side. Her little hand, icy cold a moment before, grew burning hot as he touched it with his own. "Kathleen, forgive me," he murmured, "but I can not let this blessed chance pass. I wrote to you. Did you receive my letter?" "Yes," she faltered. "Cruel girl! And you would not reply? Kathleen, was that just or fair? Could you find no excuse in your heart for me when I had told you my whole sad story?" "I--I--was sorry for you. I--wanted to--write--but I promised not to," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "Promised not to write to me!" His dark eyes flashed with anger. "Who was so cruel as to forbid you? Mr. Darrell?" "No--No! Teddy knows nothing. It was my uncle. It seemed to him that it would not be right to my--to--to--Mr. Darrell!" "To Mr. Darrell! Oh, Kathleen, is it true, that you will marry him? Do you love him?" "Do not ask me. It is not right. You--you--are not free!" she cried, trying to be loyal to her absent betrothed.