“And it was to give her that same satisfaction I came here,” cried he, eagerly. “I accepted Tom's invitation on the sole pledge that I could vindicate myself to you. I know what is laid to my charge, and I know too how hard it will be to clear myself without appearing like a coxcomb.” He grew crimson as he said this, and the shame that overwhelmed him was a better advocate than all his words. “But,” added he, “you shall think me vain, conceited,--a puppy, if you will,--but you shall not believe me false. Will you listen to me?” “On one condition I will,” said she, calmly. “Name your condition. What is it?” “My condition is this: that when I have heard you out,--heard all that you care to tell me--if it should turn out that I am not satisfied--I mean, if it appear to me a case in which I ought not to be satisfied--you will pledge your word that this conversation will be our last together.” “But, Lucy, in what spirit will you judge me? If you can approach the theme thus coldly, it gives me little hope that you will wish to acquit me.” A deep blush covered her face as she turned away her head, but made no answer. “Be only fair, however,” cried he, eagerly. “I ask for nothing more.” He drew her arm within his as he spoke, and they turned towards the beach where a little sweep of the bay lay hemmed in between lofty rocks. “Here goes my last throw for fortune,” said Trafford, after they had strolled along some minutes in silence. “And oh, Lucy, if you knew how I would like to prolong these minutes before, as it may be, they are lost to me forever! If you knew how I would like to give this day to happiness and hope!” She said nothing, but walked along with her head down, her face slightly averted from him. “I have not told you of my visit to the Priory,” said he, suddenly. “No; how came you to go there?” “I went to see the place where you had lived, to see the garden you had tended, and the flowers you loved, Lucy. I took away this bit of jasmine from a tree that overhung a little rustic seat. It may be, for aught I know, all that may remain to me of you ere this day closes.” “My dear little garden! I was so fond of it!” she said, concealing her emotion as well as she could. “I am such a coward,” said he, angrily; “I declare I grow ashamed of myself. If any one had told me I would have skulked danger in this wise, I 'd have scouted the idea! Take this, Lucy,” said he, giving her the sprig of withered jasmine; “if what I shall tell you exculpate me--if you are satisfied that I am not unworthy of your love,--you will give it back to me; if I fail--” He could not go on, and another silence of some seconds ensued. “You know the compact now?” asked he, after a moment. She nodded assent.