“Mr. Faradeane!” said Bessie, with a little catch in her voice. “Yes, sir, you shall go.” Olivia’s heart seemed to stand still at the sound of the voice which had been the first and only one to thrill it to its secret depths, and her face went pale. With a great effort she forced a slight laugh. “Bessie disposes of me as if I were her exclusive property,” she said, and the effort she made to control her voice caused it to sound hard and cold. She moved on, and Faradeane, taking her remark as permission, walked by her side. Olivia’s heart was beating wildly. Scarcely for a moment since her scene with him in the wood had he been absent from her thoughts. At night in her dreams she could hear his voice calling her name, calling her his darling! Shame and love--alas! yes, love--battled for mastery within her as she felt the influence of the near presence of the man who had absorbed her whole life, who had become to her, as the old Persian poem says, “The sun and the moon and the stars and the light thereof.” this man who, while he had dared to take her in his arms, had stopped short of asking her to be his wife. She felt now, as her face burned as if with fire, that she ought to send him from her with a cold word of dismissal; but she could not, for there was a miserable conviction within her heart that he was her soul’s master, and that she was his slave. For some minutes they walked on in silence, Olivia with her shawl drawn round her, almost concealing her face, Faradeane with his head erect, his hand thrust in his pocket, a set look of earnest thought upon his pale, haggard face. At last he said: “Miss Vanley, I find it difficult to speak to you to-night, almost impossible to say what I feel it is my duty to myself, and to you, should be said.” His voice was very low and grave, and his eyes, as they turned to her, were full of sad earnestness. “I know what it costs you to talk with me thus--how much you wish to rid yourself of me.” “Why should I?” she said, though she knew. “Because you feel that I have forfeited your esteem, that I have acted dishonorably. You will think still worse of me when I tell you that I cannot, that I dare not explain my conduct to you the other day--that I am compelled to suffer the continuance of your contempt and scorn because I am unable to tell you all, to lay my heart bare to you. But it is so,” he sighed. “I asked you to forgive me when we parted in the wood. Is it possible that you may learn to do so? Yours is a sweet and pitying nature; extend your mercy to a man who needs it very badly.” The words, the tone, went straight to her heart. “I--I forgive you,” she said, almost in a whisper. He made no response for a moment, and the silence was more eloquent than words. “Let me speak one more word,” he said. She made a slight gesture of assent. “Lord Granville has gone--left England, you know. Will you believe that I broke as well as I could the sorrow your refusal cost him?”