"Oh, no, no," I say, recoiling from him; "not that; I did not mean that. I did not want to run away with you. Next month will be soon enough. It was only they insisted on my going to Qualmsley, and I was determined I would not." "It is disgraceful your being made wretched in this way," exclaims Marmaduke, wrathfully. "Tell me what has vexed you?" He is not aware of the Misses Vernons' existence. "Where is Qualmsley?" "It is a horrible place, in Yorkshire, where nobody lives, except my aunts. They want me to go to stay there next week for a month. The hateful old things wrote inviting Dora, and when she refused to go papa insisted on victimizing me in her place. If you only knew Aunt Martha and Aunt Priscilla, you would understand my abhorrence--my detestation--of them. They are papa's sisters--the very image of him--and tread and trample on one at every turn. I would rather die than go to them. I would far rather marry you." I hardly guess the significance of my last words until I see my lover whiten and wince in the twilight. "Of course I don't mean that," I say, confusedly, "I only---" But, as I don't at all feel sure what it is I do mean, I break down here ignominiously and relapse into awkward silence. "Of course not," he answers. "I quite understand." But his voice has lost all its enthusiasm, and somehow his words drag. "Had you not better come back to the house, Phyllis? You will catch cold without your hat and in that light dress." I am clothed in white muslin, a little open at the throat, and with my arms half bare. A piece of blue ribbon defines my waist, a bow of the same hue is in my hair; the locket that contains his face is round my neck; a great crimson rose lies upon my bosom. "I am not cold," I reply: "and I am afraid to face papa." We are separated now, and I stand alone, gazing down into the rippling stream that runs noisily at my feet. Already two or three bright stars are twinkling overhead and shine up at me, reflected from below. Mr. Carrington lets the distance widen between us while regarding me I feel rather than see--with moody discontented eyes. "Phyllis," he says, presently, in a low tone, "it seems to me a horrible thing that the idea of your marriage should be so distasteful to you---" "No, no; not distasteful," I interrupt, with deprecation. "Don't say 'no' if you mean 'yes.' Put my feelings out of the question, and tell me honestly if you are unhappy about it." "I am not. It does not make me more unhappy to marry you than to marry any one else." "What an answer!" exclaims Marmaduke, with a groan. "Is that all the consolation you can offer me?" "That is all. Have I not told you all this long ago?" I cry, angrily, goaded by the reflection that each word I speak only makes matters harder. "Why do you bring the subject up again? Must you too be unkind to me? You cannot have believed me madly in love with you, as I have told you to the contrary ages ago."