"Let us make a story about that young couple in the picture, Miss Betty. The man is poor, he has nothing to offer her. He dare not tell her what is in his heart. She has been accustomed to luxury; he knows she will find it lacking if she links her life to his. She has many friends; he has none. She may meet some one who can offer her everything that the world can give. Is he to spoil this possibility, and expect her to listen to him? Is it likely that she will prefer his boat to her own? Is it not his duty to be silent, and let her glide on down life's stream, passing him as he rows by her side in the shade?" "It might be his duty," said Betty tremulously, as she interlaced her fingers tightly in her lap, "but it wouldn't be love." "'Could Love part thus? Was it not well to speak, To have spoken once? It could not but be well.'" She almost breathed these words. Gerald's eyes glowed. He leant forward. "Would the speaking bring pain to her?" he said. "Would it be but the prelude of bidding 'adieu for ever'?" Betty's nerves were highly strung. She was frightened at the audacity of her last words, and following an impulse for which she could not account, she said, with a little laugh,— "You must ask Mr. Russell. It is his story, not mine." And then she rose from her seat. Gerald drew his breath in sharply, but he said not a word, only followed her in silence to the little group on the lawn. Betty seemed in the highest spirits; she laughed and she chattered so much that Nesta, with her quick intuition, saw that something had gone wrong. Gerald looked on silently. In his heart he was murmuring,— "'In vain I strove to reach it Through the tangled mass of green; It only smiled and nodded Behind its thorny screen.'" And Betty, poor Betty, was nearer tears than laughter; for she had a dull miserable ache in her heart, and was keenly conscious that with her light indifferent words she had put away a great happiness from herself, and wounded to the quick the one she would have given her life to comfort. She was glad when Nesta's carriage came round. Gerald did not speak to her till he held out his hand to say good-bye, and then Betty's forced cheerfulness forsook her. He looked down upon her so kindly, and with such a tender reverence in his eyes, that her sensitive little soul was filled with remorse, and tears trembled on her eyelashes as she looked up at him. "Good-bye, Mr. Arundel. I—I hope you will have a nice time." "I hope we shall," he said; "and I promise you to look after Mr. Russell." That gentleman came up and laid his hand affectionately on Betty's shoulder. "Good-bye, little woman. You must be here to welcome me back. We shall only be gone six weeks. God bless you."