“Obstacle!” repeated Miss De Lancie, starting violently, and gazing with wild, dilated eyes upon the questioner, while every vestige of color fled from her face. “Yes, that was the word I used, dearest Marguerite! Oh, if there be----” “What obstacle should exist, except my own will? A very sufficient one, I should say,” interrupted Marguerite, struggling hard for self-control. “Say your decision against your will.” “What right have you to think so, sir?” “Look in your own heart and read my right, Marguerite.” “I never look into that abyss!” “Marguerite, you fill me with a terrible anxiety. Marguerite, for seven years you have reigned a queen over society; your hand has been sought by the most distinguished men of the country; you are as full of tenderness and enthusiasm as a harp is of music; it seems incredible that you have never married or betrothed yourself, or even loved, or fancied that you loved! Tell me, Marguerite, in the name of Heaven, tell me, have any of these events occurred to you?” He waited for an answer. She remained silent, while a frightful pallor overspread her face. “Tell me! Oh! tell me, Marguerite, have you ever before loved? Ah, pardon the question and answer it.” She made a supreme effort, recovered her self-possession and replied: “No, not as you understand it.” “How?--not as I understand it? Ah! forgive me again, but your words increase my suffering.” “Oh! I have loved Nellie as a sister, her father and mother as parents, some acquaintances as friends, that is all.” She was answering these close questions! she was yielding to the fascination. Amid all her agony of conflicting emotions she was yielding. “Marguerite! Marguerite! And this is true! You have never loved before!” “It is true--yet what of that? for I know not even why I admit this! Oh! leave me, I am not myself. Hope nothing from what I have told you. I can never, never be your wife!” exclaimed Marguerite, with the half-suppressed and wild affright of one yielding to a terrible spell. “But one word more. Is your hand free also, dearest Marguerite?” “Yes, it is free; but what then? I have told you----” “Then it is free no longer; for by the splendor of the heavens, it is mine. Marguerite, it is mine!” he exclaimed as he caught and pressed that white hand in his own.