"'It is indestructable; Its holy flame forever burneth: From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.' but not yet awhile, I hope." "You are a special pleader," says she, with a sudden smile. "For the cause that I plead I would that I were a more eloquent advocate." "You are eloquent enough," glancing at him for a moment, and then again turning away from him; "too eloquent," she says, with a little sigh. He is still holding her hands, but now he does not speak or answer her in any wise. A silence falls upon them, calm as the night. In "full orbed glory" the moon above sails through the skies. "A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven." "There is one thing I must say, Monica," says the young man at last, lifting her face gently with one hand until her eyes look into his own: "remember, my life is in your hands." "Do not overburden me," she answers, but in so low a voice that it can scarce be heard. Yet _he_ hears. "My darling, must I be a burden to you?" he says. "Monica, if this my courtship is hateful to you, or more than you can bear, dismiss me now, and I will go from you, no matter what it costs me." "You are no true lover, to talk like that," she says, with a shadowy smile. "I am lover enough to wish you no pain or weariness of spirit." "I doubt you are too good for me," she answers with a little burst of feeling. "I must be a paragon indeed if that be so," returns he. "Oh, Monica, if you could only love me!" "I _dare_ not." Then, as though sorry for these words, she holds out her hands to him, and says, with a quick smile, "Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" "I wish I knew," returns he sadly. "Yet if I were sure of one thing I should not despair. Monica, tell me you don't like Ryde." "I can't," says Monica. "He is very kind to me always. I am sure I ought to like him." "How has he been kind to you?" "Oh, in many ways." "He has brought you a cup of somebody else's tea, I suppose, and has probably trotted after you with a camp-stool; is that kindness?" "If one is hot or tired, yes." "You are one of the most grateful specimen of your sex. I wish there was anything for which you might be grateful to me. But I am not great at the _petits soins_ business." "I shouldn't have thought so this afternoon," says Monica, maliciously, "when you were happy with Olga Bohun. But see, the moon has risen quite above the elms. I must go." "Not yet. There is something else. When am I to see you again?--when?" "That is as fate wills it." "_You_ are my fate. Will it, then, and say to-morrow." "No, no!" exclaims she, releasing her hands from his, "I cannot indeed. I _must_ not. In being here with you now I am doing wrong, and am betraying the two people in the world who are most kind to me. How shall I look into their eyes to-morrow? No; I will not promise to meet you anywhere--_ever_."