forgotten, in that momentary exaltation, that any interruption was possible, and stood, clearly visible in the moonlight, looking out upon the lake, when she heard the sound behind her of an uncertain step coming out upon the veranda, then, crossing the gravel path, coming towards her. She had not any thought of concealing herself, nor had she time to do so, when Everard came up to her, breathless with haste, and what seemed to be excitement. He said quickly, “You were not in the drawing-room, and the window was open. I thought you would not mind if I came after you.” Rosalind looked up at him somewhat coldly, for she had forgotten he was there. “I thought you had gone,” she said, turning half towards him, as if--which was true--she did not mean to be disturbed. His presence had a jarring effect, and broke the enchantment of the scene. He was always instantly sensitive to any rebuff. “I thought,” he repeated apologetically, “that you would not mind. You have always made me feel so much--so much at home.” These ill-chosen words roused Rosalind’s pride. “My aunt,” she said, “has always been very glad to see you, Mr. Everard, and grateful to you for what you have done for us.” “Is that all?” he said hastily; “am I always to have those children thrown in my teeth? I thought now, by this time, that you might have cared for me a little for myself; I thought we had taken to each other,” he added, with a mixture of irritation and pathos, with the straightforward sentiment of a child; “for you know very well,” he cried, after a pause, “that it is not for nothing I am always coming; that it is not for the children, nor for your aunt, nor for anything but you. You know that I think of nothing but you.” The young man’s voice was hurried and tremulous with real feeling, and the scene was one, above all others, in harmony with a love tale; and Rosalind’s heart had been touched by many a soft illusion in respect to the speaker, and had made him, before she knew him, the subject of many a dream; but at this supreme moment a strange effect took place in her. With a pang, acute as if it had been cut off by a blow, the mist of illusion was suddenly severed, and floated away from her, leaving her eyes cold and clear. A sensation of shame that she should ever have been deceived, that she could have deceived him, ran hot through all her being. “I think,” she said quickly, “Mr. Everard, that you are speaking very wildly. I know nothing at all of why you come, of what you are thinking.” Her tone was indignant, almost haughty, in spite of herself.