“Impossible!” he echoed, blankly. “Why is it impossible? Not because you don’t care, that I’ll swear.” She said nothing. “Or, if that is so, look at me and say I don’t love you.” But Miss Grace did not speak, nor yet did she look. “Or will you tell me that there is some one else whom you like better?” he asked, regaining hope. No, Miss Grace did not seem inclined to vouchsafe that information either. “Or that the care of the child would be an objection?” “_No_!” she burst out, in an agonized tone. “Then what do you mean by impossible?” he asked. “It seems to me very possible indeed.” She looked at him—that proud, handsome, erect man, with a smile of expectant happiness on his good face—and tried to take her hands away. “Oh!” she sobbed out, “don’t you think I would if I could? I have not been so happy that I would throw away such happiness as you could give me. Some day you may know what it costs me to tell you that it is quite impossible.” “You give me no hope?” he asked, in a dull voice, and she saw that he had grown white to his very lips. “None,” she returned; then added, bitterly, “Oh, hope and I have had nothing to say to one another this long, long while.” Bootles dropped her hand listlessly. “Then it is no use my boring you,” he said, turning away. [Picture: Then with one imploring backward look she went away and left him alone] A fierce denial rose to the girl’s lips, but she choked it down and suffered his words in silence. Then meekly, and with one imploring backward look at his tall figure as he stood, his head well up in spite of his defeat, looking into the fire, she went away and left him alone. CHAPTER VII. SO it was all over. This was the end of all his hopes and dreams and wishes! This was the end! None of his bright hopes would ever be—none of his golden dreams would come to pass. His wishes had no weight with the woman he loved. He had looked forward—like a fool, he thought, bitterly—and had pictured her in a dozen different ways: at the head of his table, in the hunting-field, in the middle age, and in the decline of life, as Mignon’s mother, as his wife. But it was all over now. When Madame’s visit was over, she would go from under his roof, never to come back to it any more, forever. He was still standing there when the door opened with some difficulty, and Miss Mignon appeared on the threshold. “Bootles?” she said, inquiringly. Bootles turned round to her. “Well?” he answered. Miss Mignon heard the misery in his voice and ran to him. “Bootles got a headache?” she asked. [Picture: He dropped into a chair and took her in his arms] He dropped into a chair and took her in his arms. “Such a headache, Mignon.” Miss Mignon knew what Bootles’s headaches were, and drew his head down upon her small shoulder with an air of protecting and comforting dignity, equally pretty and absurd in one so young. “Mignon _loves_ Bootles,” she whispered.