He jerked at his mustache irritably, quite unconscious how he was wronging poor innocent Sir Gaspard. “I never would have thought Le Marchant the sort of man to marry again,” he thought gloomily. “I’ll see him as soon as he gets back, and tell him I--I want Cristiane. She sha’n’t have any stepmother about while there’s a roof at Cylmer’s Ferry!” He looked doubtfully at the girl as she walked on before him. If only he dared stoop and kiss those soft gold waves that were swept upward from the back of her neck: dared to say he loved her from the crown of her golden head to the tips of her little shoes. “Cristiane,” he said, “I want to speak to you. Do you know you have never said you were sorry that these people were coming; never said you would miss our long, happy days together?” “But I won’t,” she said calmly: “you’ll be here. You’re not going to die, or anything, are you?” She had turned round to him as she spoke, and her violet-gray eyes were raised to his, her rose-colored lips parted in a mockery that stung for all its sweetness. Two hands that were light and yet hard as iron were laid on her shoulders before she knew it. Miles Cylmer’s face, with a strange, sweet pity on it that she had never seen there, was bent down to hers. “Cristiane, little girl, I want you to promise me something. If anything goes wrong with you--will you come to me?” “What do you mean, Miles?” she said soberly. “What could go wrong--while I have father?” His hands were hard on her shoulders. “I don’t know--but I love you, and somehow I’m afraid for you.” He spoke stumblingly--in his outraged pity that he thought was love--how could he keep his raging pulse quiet? How could he make this child, who did not love him, come to his heart? “Can’t you care a little, sweetheart?” he whispered. “Can’t you marry me?” Marry him, Miles Cylmer, who was like a brother? “I--I don’t think I could, Miles,” Cristiane said slowly. “I----” “Try.” His face was close to hers, she could feel his breath, sweet and warm, on her cheek. Was this Miles, who had never even thought of making love to her? Why, he was trembling! With a sudden, wild rebellion the girl tore herself away from him. “Don’t touch me,” she panted. “Marry you--I would as soon marry Thomas the butler; I’ve known him from a child, too!”--with angry scorn. Cylmer, very white and quiet, let his hands drop to his sides. “All right,” he said quietly, “we won’t speak of it. And I won’t come over any more--after to-day.” “You needn’t.” She was struggling with tears. She did not know why. “I--I wish you’d go home now!”--stamping her foot. “I will; but I’m going up to see these daughters of Heth first,” he returned quietly. “Don’t dare to ask me to marry you again,” she cried childishly, “because I don’t like it! And you’re not to stay to tea now--or come here any more till I ask you.” “I will not. I shall let Thomas try his luck.”