"What can I have done? Ever since you went away with Stephen, down to the Beeches to-day, your manner toward me has been utterly changed. Don't--_don't_ say you have been persuaded by him to name your wedding day!" He speaks excitedly, as one might who is at last giving words to a fear that has been haunting him for long. "So far from it," says Miss Blount, with slow solemnity, "that he sought an opportunity to-day to formally release me from my promise to him!" "He has released you?" Words are too poor to express Roger's profound astonishment. "Yes; on one condition." "A condition! What a Jew! Yes; well, go on--?" "I _can't_ go on," says Dulce, growing crimson. "I can't, _indeed_," putting up her hands as she sees him about to protest; "it is of no use asking me. I neither can or will tell you about that condition, _ever_." "Give me even a _hint_," says Roger, coaxingly. "No, _no_, NO! The rack wouldn't make me tell it," returns she, with a stern shake of her red-brown head, but with very pathetic eyes. "But what _can_ it be," exclaims Roger, fairly puzzled. "_That_ I shall go to my grave without divulging," replies she, heroically. "Well, no matter," says Roger, after a minute's reflection, resolved to take things philosophically. "You are free, that is the great point. And now--_now_, Dulce, you will marry me?" At this Miss Blount grows visibly affected (as they say of ladies in the dock), and dropping into the nearest chair, lets her hands fall loosely clasped upon her knees, and so remains, the very picture of woe. "I can't do that, either," she says at last, without raising her afflicted lids. "But why?" impatiently. "What is to prevent you?--unless, indeed," suspiciously, "you really don't care about it." "It isn't that, indeed," says Dulce, earnestly, letting her eyes, suffused with tears, meet his for a moment. "Then _what_ is it? You say he has released you, and that you have therefore regained your liberty, and yet--yet--Dulce, _do_ be rational and give me an explanation. At least, say why you will not be my wife." "If I told that I should tell you the condition, too," says poor Dulce, in a stifled tone, feeling sorely put to it, "and _nothing_ would induce me to do that. I told you before I wouldn't." "You needn't," says Roger, softly. "I see it now. And anything more sneaking-- So he has given you your liberty, but has taken good care you sha'n't be happy in it. I never heard of a lower transaction. I--" "Oh! how did you find it out?" exclaims Dulce, blushing again generously. "I don't know," replies he, most untruthfully, "I guessed it, I think; it was so like him. You--did you agree to his condition, Dulce?" "Yes," says Dulce. "You gave him your word?" "Yes." "Then he'll keep you to it, be sure of that. What a pity you did not take time to consider what you would do." "I considered _this_ quite quickly," says Dulce: "I said to myself that _nothing_ could be worse than marrying a man I did not love."