“How summarily you dispose of the happiness and the very destiny of a fellow-being!” said Rufus despairingly and reproachfully. “I would see her in your presence--” “You cannot. You have prolonged this interview beyond bounds, sir. Take my advice and go back to Miss Wynde. I must bid you a good-evening, Mr. Black. You can go out at this garden door, if you please.” Mrs. Peters threw open the garden door, and a gust of chill wind swept in, nearly extinguishing the lights. Rufus hesitated, but the door remained open, and Mrs. Peters looked so grim and stern that he obeyed her without a murmur, and went out in a dead silence, his wild eyes giving her a last look of reproach and despair. A minute later, she heard his cab roll away from the house. “I wonder if I have done right,” the woman muttered uneasily, as she closed the door. “I have taken a great responsibility upon myself in deciding the fate of my young mistress. I almost wish that I had let him see her, but she is so young and tender and pitiful, she would be sure to take him back again. His eyes will haunt me. He looked as a man might look on his way to execution.” At that moment the library door was tried from the hall, and an imperious little knock sounded upon the panels. “Peters,” cried Lally, from without, in an agitated voice, “let me in! let me in!” Peters calmed her face, and hastened to unlock the door. Lally swept in impetuously, her gypsy face aglow, her black eyes full of fire, her chest panting. She held in one hand a gentleman’s glove, which she had just picked up from the hall floor. Her keen eyes swept the room, and her countenance fell with disappointment at finding Mrs. Peters alone. “I heard a carriage go away just now, Peters,” she cried. “Who has been here?” “Was it not the wind, Miss?” cried Peters, flushing. “No; I heard wheels going down the drive. And here is something I found in the hall, Peters--a man’s glove. Whose is it?” “It might be Toppen’s, Miss--” “It might be, but it isn’t,” said Lally, full of suppressed excitement, that made her strangely beautiful. “This is a gentleman’s glove. See how soft and fine the kid is. The color is just the shade of lavender Rufus used to wear when he wore gloves, and it has just the jessamine scent he used to drop always into his gloves. And--and here is one of the very glove buttons he used to slip from one pair of gloves to another. I would know that small gold knob, with its chased edge, anywhere. Peters, he has been here! Rufus has been here.” The flushing, agitated face of Mrs. Peters confessed the truth. “He has followed us up from London!” cried Lally, her eyes glowing like suns. “He has come after me and traced me to this place. He loves me still--he must love me, Peters! He must love me better than Miss Wynde?” “He said so, Miss Lally.” “Ah, then it is true? But why did he go away without seeing me? Why did you not call me? Perhaps he will give up all for me, thinking me still poor like himself?”