"I'm sure, at least, that I never liked Stephen in _that_ way," confesses she, faintly. "And you did like me?" Silence again. "Then," says Mr. Dare, wrathfully, "for the sake of a mere whim, a caprice, you flung me over and condemned me to months of misery? Did you know what you were doing? Did _you_ feel unhappy? I hope to goodness you _did_," says Roger, indignantly; "if you endured even one quarter of what I have suffered, it would be punishment sufficient for you." "Had you nothing to do with it?" asks she, nervously. "No; it was entirely your own fault," replies he, hastily. Whereupon she very properly bursts into tears. "Every woman," says some one, "is in the wrong till she cries; then, instantly, she is in the right." So it is with Dulce. No sooner does Roger see "her tears down fa'" than, metaphorically speaking, he is on his knees before her. I am sure but for the people on the lake, who might find an unpleasant amount of amusement in the tableau, he would have done so literally. "Don't do that," he entreats, earnestly. "Don't Dulce. I have behaved abominably to you. It was _not_ your fault; it was all mine. But for my detestable temper--" "And the chocolate creams," puts in Dulce, sobbing. "It would never have occurred. Forgive me," implores he, distractedly, seeing her tears are rather on the increase than otherwise. "I must be a brute to speak to you as I have done." "I won't contradict you," says Miss Blount, politely, still sobbing. There is plainly a great deal of indignation mingled with her grief. To say it was all _her_ fault, indeed, when he knows. "Don't cry any more," says Roger, coaxingly, trying to draw her hands down from her eyes; "don't, now, you have got to go back to the others, you know, and they will be wondering what is the matter with you. They will think you had a bad fall." This rouses her; she wipes her eyes hastily and looks up. "How shall I explain to them?" she asks, anxiously. "We won't explain at all. Let me take off your skates, and we will walk up and down here until your eyes are all right again. Why, really," stooping to look at them, "they are by no means bad; they will be as good as ever in five minutes." Inexpressibly consoled, she lets him take off her skates, and commences a gentle promenade with him up and down the brown and stunted grass that lies upon the path. "There was a time," says Roger, after a pause, "when I might have dared to kiss away your tears, but I suppose that time is gone forever." "I suppose so," dismally; tears are still wetting the sweet eyes she turns up to his. "Dulce! let me understand you," says Roger, gravely. "You are quite sure you don't care for him?" "Quite," says Dulce, without a second's hesitation. "Then ask him to give you up--to release you from your promise," says Roger, brightly. "I--I'd be afraid," replies Miss Blount, drooping her head.