Her dark, full eyes, the warm blood that her thoughts brought into her face even in the solitude of her chamber, did not belie her nature, which was intense, and capable of a strong and an abiding passion when once kindled. Mr. Hargrove had watched her with the deepest solicitude on her return, and he felt rather than saw the change that had taken place in his idol. She had pleaded fatigue, and retired early. In the morning she was again conscious of his half-questioning scrutiny, and when he went to his study she followed, and told him what had occurred. He grew very pale, and drew a long, deep breath. Then, as if mastered by a strong impulse, he clasped her to his heart, and said, in trembling tones, "Oh, Trurie, if I had lost you!" "I fear you would have lost me, papa, had it not been for Mr. Clifford." He paced the room for a few moments in agitation, and at last stopped before her and said: "Perhaps in a sense I am to lose you after all. Has Mr. Clifford spoken?" "No, papa; he has only risked his life to save mine." "You are very grateful?" "Yes." "Do not think I underestimate his act, Trurie; but, believe me, if he should speak now or soon, you are in no condition to answer him." She smiled incredulously. "He did what any man would do for a woman in peril. He has no right to claim such an immense reward." "Before I went to the mountains I said I was no longer a child; but I was, compared with what I am now. It seems to me that feeling, experience, more than years, measures our age. I am a woman to-day, one who has been brought so near the future world that I have been taught how to value what may be ours now. I have learned how to value you and your unselfish love as I never did before. Mr. Clifford will not speak very soon, if he ever does, and I have not yet decided upon my answer. Should it be favorable, rest assured more than gratitude will prompt me; and also be assured you would not lose me. Could I not be more to you were I happy than if I went through life with the feeling that I had missed my chance?" "I fear your mother would never give her consent to so unworldly a choice," he said, with a troubled brow. "I've yet to be convinced that it would be such a choice. It's scarcely unworldly to make the most and the best of the world one is in, and mamma must permit me to judge for myself, as she chose for herself. I shall never marry any one but a gentleman, and one who can give me a home. Have I not a right to prefer a home to an establishment, papa?" He looked at her long and searchingly, and she met his scrutiny with a grave and gentle dignity. "I suppose we must submit to the inevitable," he said at last. "Yes, papa." "It seems but the other day that you were a baby on my knee," he began, sadly; "and now you are drifting far away."