"I should have remembered how pure and delicate a flower my beautiful love was," he murmured. "I should have remembered that my love was a star, to be approached with reverence and awe, not taken by storm. I have been too presumptuous; but, oh, Stella, you do not know what such love as mine is! It is like a mountain torrent hard to stem; it sweeps all before it. That is my love for you, Stella. And now, what will you say to me?" As he spoke he drew her still nearer to him; she could feel his breath stirring her hair, could almost hear the passionate beating of his heart. What should she say to him? If she allowed her heart to speak she would hide her face upon his breast and whisper--"Take me." But, girl as she was, she had some idea of all that divided them; the very place in which they stood was eloquent of the difference between them; between him, the future lord of Wyndward, and she, the poor painter's niece. "Will you not speak to me?" he murmured. "Have you not a single word for me? Stella, if you knew how I long to hear those beautiful lips answer me with the words I have spoken. Stella, I would give all I possess in the world to hear you say, 'I love you!'" "No, no," she said, again, almost pantingly. "Do not ask me--do not say any more. I--I cannot bear it!" His face flushed hotly for a moment, but he held her tightly, and his eyes searched hers for the truth. "Does it pain you to hear that I love you?" he whispered. "Are you angry, sorry? Can you not love me, Stella? Oh, my darling!--let me call you my darling, mine, if only for once, for one short minute! See, you are mine, I hold you in both hands! Be mine for a short minute at least, while you answer me. Are you sorry? Can you not give me a little love in return for all the love I bear you? Cannot you, Stella?" Panting now, and with the rich color coming and going on her face, she looks this way and that like some wild, timid animal seeking to escape. "Do not press me, do not force me to speak," she almost moans. "Let me go now." "No, by Heaven!" he says, almost fiercely. "You shall not, must not go, until you have answered me. Tell me, Stella, is it because I am nothing to you, and you do not like to tell me so? Ah! better the truth at once, hard as it may be to bear, than suspense. Tell me, Stella." "It--it--is not that," she says, with drooping head. "What is it, then?" he whispers, and he bends his head to catch her faintly whispered words, so that his lips almost touch her face. From the drawing-room comes the sound of some one playing; it recalls all the grandeur of the scene, all the high mightiness of the house to which he belongs--of which he is so nearly the head, and it gives her strength. Slowly she raises her head and looks at him. There is infinite tenderness, infinite yearning, and suppressed maidenly passion in her eyes. "It is not that," she says. "But--do you forget?"