“Is that your answer?” he asked, in so low a tone that it was almost inaudible. “It is!” she responded, with a pant. “Why do you not go? You can tell him,” with a cruel smile, “that you did your best, that you are not to be blamed; that if he had had any chance you would have succeeded in your--mission. Yes,” with a strange thrill, “you--you did your best!” He stood with his hands behind his back, his head lowered under the storm of her fierce, maiden passion. “Why do you not go?” she repeated, impatiently, “or do you wish me to?” He held up his hands as if to stay her; then, not even lifting his hat, turned and left her. Out in the park, out of her sight, he stood and looked round him like a man who has received an overwhelming shock, which, for the time, has bereft him of his senses; then he went toward his horse, which was quietly nibbling at the boughs. As he did so he heard a sound behind him, a sob such as one hears from the woman whose heart is breaking. He dropped the bridle, and a shudder ran through him as he stood for a moment awestruck; then he sprang back. She was lying full length on the ground, her arms extended, her face lying upon the grass, her hands clinching the bracken; a picture of a living soul writhing in an agony of shame and wounded love. He was beside her in an instant, his strong arms around her, his voice, full of passionate love and self-reproach, calling on her name. “Olivia! Olivia! my love! my love! Olivia!” Weakened, exhausted, she was powerless to resist him, and he held her in his arms, her supple form pressed against his breast, his eyes looking down into hers with a mad, wild hunger, an infinite sadness. A moment--ah, but it was a lifetime!--passed, then suddenly a cold wave seemed to sweep over him, and, still holding her, he rose to his feet. She felt the change, be it what it may, and drew back from him, leaning against a tree, panting and quivering. And he stood and looked at her in silence--a terrible silence. At last his voice came hoarsely, as if with difficulty. “Olivia--Miss Vanley! Forgive me! Forgive me! I--I was mad! I forgot--I--I forgot! Forgive me and forget every mad word----” He hung his head. She looked at him, a look of terrible questioning. He had called her his love, had held her in his arms, and now he asked her to forget. She drew herself up, white and trembling, but strong in her woman’s pride. “Forget! Yes!” she said. “But not forgive! You--you should have waited until--until I told you that I have promised to be Bartley Bradstone’s wife, Mr. Faradeane!” Then, drawing her skirts close, as if to avoid touching him, she swept by him, and left him standing with bowed head and heaving chest. CHAPTER XIV. THE FUTURE SON-IN-LAW. It was the first great agony in Olivia’s life. White to the lips, quivering with the shame which only a pure-hearted girl whose love has been repulsed can feel, she made her way homeward.