CHAPTER II. MORE THAN HALF WAY “Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.” MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. “La doute s’introduit dans l’âme qui rêve, la foi descend dans l’âme qui souffre.” THOSE few days had been dull enough for Marion. The weeks of happiness, unquestioning, if not thoughtless, that had preceded them, had ill prepared her for the sudden change. For that there was a change, that some mysterious influence had come between Ralph and her, she felt convinced. At first she was inclined to ascribe it to Cissy’s unlucky allusion to Frank Berwick that afternoon on the terrace. But on further reflection she became convinced that though this might explain part, it did not throw light on the whole. If Ralph’s feelings to her were merely, as she had for long believed, those of kindly, almost pitying friendliness, there could be no reason why the suspicion of her attachment to another should interfere with their pleasant intercourse. If, on the other hand, as of late she had half unconsciously begun to hope, his interest in her was of a far deeper nature, why should he have allowed all these weeks of almost daily intercourse to elapse, and then suddenly on the mere shadowy appearance of a possible rival, withdraw without a word of explanation offered or demanded? No, if Ralph indeed “cared for her,” as she softly worded it to herself, there must be some other obstacle in the way, some more important influence at work than any mistaken dread of the young officer. Marion to some extent misunderstood Ralph. She had no idea of his extreme self contempt, his rooted notion that in all respects he was utterly unattractive, and unlikely to win a girl’s affection. She, in her sweet humility, so looked up to him that she could not realize his complete unconsciousness of the loftiness of the pedestal on which she had placed.