Billy gave a visible start. A quick something like shocked terror came to her eyes. She drew back and would have risen to her feet had the thought not come to her that twice before she had supposed a man was making love to her, when subsequent events proved that she had been mortifyingly mistaken: once when Cyril had told her of his love for Marie; and again when William had asked her to come back as a daughter to the house she had left desolate. Telling herself sternly now not to be for the third time a “foolish little simpleton,” she summoned all her wits, forced a cheery smile to her lips, and said: “Well, really, Mr. Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, so I'm not the one to give hope; and--” “But you are the one,” interrupted the man, passionately. “You're the only one! As if from the very first I hadn't loved you, and--” “No, no, not that--not that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding what you mean,” pleaded a horror-stricken voice. Billy was on her feet now, holding up two protesting hands, palms outward. “Miss Neilson, you don't mean--that you haven't known--all this time--that it was you?” The man, now, was on his feet, his eyes hurt and unbelieving, looking into hers. Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed on his, carried the shrinking terror of one who sees a horrid vision. “But you know--you _must_ know that I am not yours to win!” she reproached him sharply. “I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's--_wife_.” From Billy's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force that was at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mere utterance of the word, wife, she had drawn a sacred circle about her and placed herself in sanctuary. From the blazing accusation in her eyes Arkwright fell back. “Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!” he exclaimed. There was no mistaking the amazed incredulity on his face. Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and a terrified appeal took its place. “You don't mean that you _didn't--know?_” she faltered. There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy's eyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there from unbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery. “No, I did not know,” said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested his arm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand. Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her throat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were on the broad back and bent head of the man before her. “But I--I don't see how you could have helped--knowing,” she stammered at last. “I don't see how such a thing could have happened that you shouldn't know!” “I've been trying to think, myself,” returned the man, still in a dull, emotionless voice. “It's been so--so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew it,” maintained Billy.