Even while he thought thus, his brow contracted with pain, a spasm of undying regret shot through him, the dream of his first love in all its sweetness returned and enthralled him once more. It was impossible! He paced up and down under the wet, dripping trees, trying to calm the tumult in his breast, with a longing for solitude and peace one moment, and a piteous thought of Vane’s great love the next. It was a terrible struggle, and it lasted through the night hours, never ceasing till the dawn, when, pale and worn, yet with a steadfast look of determination about his mouth and in his handsome eyes, he conquered it. He was brave and strong--sorrow could not crush him; but Vane--poor, delicate Vane--she could not endure trouble; and so, if indeed his mother had spoken aright, he would go to Vane, and ask her to be his wife. The gloomy weather in London did not tend to lessen Miss Charteris’ despondent mood. She was peevish, bored, discontented, longing to leave England and go to a warmer climate, yet feeling that she could not give up her desire and declare herself defeated. She was waiting only for a week or two to pass, and then she would go down once more to Crosbie Castle and make a final effort. This idea was occupying her mind as she sat one dull, wet afternoon gazing out into the dismal streets, with a gloomy look spoiling her pretty face. She heard the door open, but did not stir, imagining it to be her mother. The stillness that followed caused her to turn; and, looking around, she met Stuart’s eyes. “Stuart!” she exclaimed, her face flushing. “You have given me quite a start! I did not know----” “I have been watching you for the last two minutes, Vane; you were lost in thought. Whose memory were you honoring by such deep meditation?” Stuart looked very handsome, and something in his manner thrilled her with joy. “I was thinking of Crosbie,” she answered. “Come to the fire, Stuart; you must be frozen. And how is Aunt Constance--and why have you come? I am very glad to see you.” Stuart stood silent, slowly removing his gloves; then he moved nearer to her side by the fire. Vane was looking lovely; the plaintive sadness of her face, which was tinged with a delicate flush, touched him. He had read it well in the first moment of his entrance, and traced, as he thought, the marks of her trouble. “I have come to see you, Vane,” he told her quietly, “because I have something to ask you.” Vane felt her heart beat wildly. “Yes, Stuart,” she said, faintly. “Vane, you must know my inmost heart--you were my confidante, my friend. I want you to continue to be my friend, the best and truest of companions--I want a helpmate, a counselor. I want you to be my wife.” Vane stood silent, her head bent. She felt faint, and, now that success had come at last, she could not speak.