“I think she is lovely!” said Bertie, in a low voice. “Olivia was always beautiful; but now--I hadn’t seen her for two years,” he went on, “and--and she startled me. She has grown into a woman. I wish you knew her, old fellow. She is as good as she is beautiful. She is just the girl you would approve of, I know. You always said that women were stupid; you wouldn’t say it of Olivia. Not that I mean that she’s clever in the way of knowing all the things women go in for now; no, not clever in that way; but--but----Oh, I can’t describe her! You must know her to understand what she is like.” The other man watched, with a smile, the handsome face, as it grew rapt and enthusiastic. “You have described her very well, Cherub,” he said, quietly. “‘To know her is to love her, and to love her is a liberal education,’” he quoted. Bertie’s face flushed. “That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “You always put things so well, Cly----I--I beg your pardon, I mean Faradeane!” he stammered. “Be careful, Bertie,” said the other, gravely. “Try and get used to my name. A slip at an unwary moment and I am”--he shrugged his shoulders--“ruined. Yes, Miss Vanley is something more than lovely. It is a face ‘that carries goodness in its eyes.’ You ought to be very happy, Cherub.” Bertie grew scarlet as a poppy. “No, no,” he said, hurriedly. “You--you have quite misunderstood. I--I----There is nothing between us--no engagement, I mean. I--I don’t think, I’ve no reason to think, that she cares----Why, don’t you see, dear old fellow, that I’m not worthy to--to----Oh, no!” “No?” said Faradeane. “I thought----Well, you are still happy in loving her,” he added. “Yes, though you never have an iota of hope, though you may never dare to tell her of your love, though your lips may never touch her hands, you are still happy in loving so sweet, so good a woman.” His voice had grown very earnest, and there was a subtle ring of pain in it that found an echo in Bertie’s heart. He hung his head. “I know what you mean,” he said, in a low voice. “‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’” said Faradeane. “Better to have loved an angel from afar than----” He stopped short suddenly. “But there’s every hope for you, Cherub,” he said, with a smile. Bertie shook his head. “I did think once--that is, I have thought of her always, and while I was away I sometimes plucked up heart, don’t you know, to fancy that I might have a chance. But now I’ve seen how beautiful and queenly and altogether too good for me----” He stopped with a sigh. “Besides, there is some one else in the field,” he added, ruefully. “Yes?” Faradeane looked at him inquiringly. “Yes,” said Bertie. “There is a fellow there--confound him! I fancy he is always at the Grange--a man named Bradstone. He has built that huge furnace, The Maples.” Faradeane nodded. “I know. He is a financier, or something of that kind. I have heard of him. But surely Miss Vanley----”