It was easy enough to carry her head erect, and to assume a proud and haughty mien while she was within Faradeane’s sight; but as she neared the Grange she felt herself drooping, and she was quivering and trembling in every limb as she entered the hall. She was ascending the great staircase on her way to her room, to give vent to her pent-up feelings in secure solitude, when a footman came up to her. “Mr. Bradstone, miss,” he said, handing her a card on a salver. “He is in the drawing-room with Mr. Vanley.” Olivia hesitated, but only for a moment; then, in a voice that sounded strained and unnatural, she said: “Very well, I will see him in a minute or two.” Then she went upstairs to her room, and flung herself on the bed, and for a few minutes lay motionless, struggling for calm and self-possession. She had passed the Rubicon; she had declared herself engaged to marry Bartley Bradstone, and she would carry out her resolution; but how gladly would she have died rather than go down and tell him so! She rose after a few minutes and bathed her face, then went slowly downstairs. The squire had left the room, and Bartley Bradstone was walking to and fro over the thick Persian carpet, biting his nails, and looking like a man waiting for the verdict of a court trying him for a capital offense, and as the door opened he turned with a start that was very much like that of a culprit. Olivia did not offer him her hand, but stood before him with pale face and downcast eyes. “You wished to see me,” she said, and the words sounded like those spoken by a cleverly-constructed automaton. “Yes,” he said, nervously, raising his restless eyes to her beautiful face. “Yes, I--I could not wait any longer. I--I was anxious and--and upset. I meant to give you more time, but--I haven’t slept a wink since last night. Miss Vanley--Olivia--you can’t guess how I love you,” and he moistened his dry lips. “You love me?” said Olivia, as if to herself. “Yes,” he responded. “Is there anything strange in that? Why shouldn’t I love you? All--all the men I know, all the men who know you, do, and why shouldn’t I? I’m not made of wood or stone. I do love you!” “And you want me to be your wife?” calmly, coldly, almost like a statue. He winced at the matter-of-fact words. “Of course. Yes, Miss Vanley--Olivia----” “It is so strange,” she murmured, again as if to herself. “Strange! how strange?” he echoed, fidgeting with his handkerchief. “Strange that you should want me, while I----” She stopped and eyed him with a look in her dreamy, tear-dimmed eyes, that ought to have stricken him to stone. “You--you mean that you don’t lo--care for me?” he said, eagerly. “Miss Vanley--Olivia--I don’t ask you to, I don’t expect it. Why should I? I know I’m not fit, that I’m not worthy, that there are many men better fitted--I mean--I don’t want you--that is, I don’t count on that. Not at present. I’m content to wait.”