“Mr. Cylmer. It’s your name, isn’t it?” “Not to you.” He turned her face to him with a masterful hand. “Are you going to call me that when you come to live over there?” he whispered, and laughed with pleasure as the blood leaped to her face. “Live over there?” she stammered, looking to where, on the far-off hill, the roof of Cylmer’s Ferry caught the last sunbeams. “I don’t see where else you’re going to live when you marry me.” “Marry you!” Every trace of color left her cheek. “I--can’t marry you.” “What! Why not?” His careless, teasing voice turned her cold. “Tell me, why not, my witch?” Tell him! She turned with sudden passion, and clung to him, hiding her face in his rough tweed coat. What had she done through this mad love that possessed her? What was she to do? The first word of her marriage with another man would make a very devil in Marcus Wray. She would look well being married to Cylmer, while her mother was being tried for her life for the murder of Lord Abbotsford, for that was what her stolen love would bring to her. “My love, my only love!” She crushed the words back against his shoulder, thankful to hide her face, and yet agonized, for how long would its shelter be hers if he knew? “Ismay, what’s the matter?” Cylmer was suddenly frightened at the wild cling of her hand in his. “Why can’t you marry me? I thought you were playing--do you mean you are in earnest?” In earnest, with the toils all around her; with murder past, and murder to come! She set her teeth hard before she answered. “Mother would never hear of it,” she faltered lamely. “Why not?” He made her look at him. “She hates you.” “But if you loved me?” wonderingly. “It wouldn’t matter! And, besides----” “Besides what?” He was very grave, his lips hard under his tawny mustache. “She wants me to marry some one else. If she thought you loved me, she would do it all the more.” “She couldn’t,” very quietly. “Do you think I am a boy, to be bullied?” Ismay drew away from him. She could not think with her face against his warm shoulder, and think she must. “Listen,” she said slowly. “I know my mother better than you. Let me get her round by degrees before we tell her anything; let nobody know just yet that you care.” “Who is the other man?” shortly. “Do you mean you are engaged to him?” Ismay turned, and looked at him. “I mean I hate him”--her voice low, with unutterable loathing--“as I shall hate you, whom I love, if you dare to think that of me.” The truth and passion in her voice made him wince with shame. “Ismay!” he cried. “Oh, love, forgive me!” “I’d forgive you if you killed me,” recklessly. “But you must listen to me, and never tell you love me till I say it is time.” “Through life and death and past the grave.” “Anything, if you love me, and only me.”