"Vincent," she said, between her half-stifled sobs, "you are not very kind. But it is better so—much better. Now I must go and help grandfather to find that book. And as this is to be the last word—well, then—dear friend—don’t be so ungenerous to me when in after years you look back——" But he was not likely to let her go like that. He interposed between her and the door; nay, he drew her towards him, and took her head between his hands, and pushed back the hair from her brow, as though he would read down to the very depths of those beautiful, tear-dimmed eyes. "You have not refused me your love, Maisrie—because you dare not!" he said. "And what do I care whether you say it or not—when I know?" And therewith he kissed her on the mouth—and again—and again. "Now you are mine. You dare not deny your love—and I claim you as my wife——" She struggled backward to be free from him, and said almost wildly— "No, no—Vincent, you do not understand—I have not been frank with you—I cannot ever be your wife!—some day I will tell you——" There was no chance for any further entreaty or explanation, for at this moment there was the sound of a footstep outside, the door was opened, and old George Bethune appeared, carrying in his hands some half-dozen books. When he saw those two standing opposite to each other, the young man pale and agitated, the girl also pale and with her eyes streaming over with tears, he glanced from the one to the other in silence. Then he walked deliberately forward to the table, and laid down the books. Maisrie escaped from the room. Vincent returned to the fireplace, too bewildered by her last words to care much what construction might be placed upon this scene by her grandfather. But he had to recall himself: for the old man, just as if he had observed nothing, just as if nothing had happened, but yet with a certain measured precision in his tones, resumed his discussion of "The Demon Lover," and proceeded to give his reasons for thinking that the story had migrated from the far north to the south. But presently Mr. Bethune had turned from those books, and was staring into the fire, as he said with a certain slow and significant emphasis— "It will be an interesting subject; and yet I must guard against being wholly absorbed by it. And that for my granddaughter’s sake. I imagine we have been living a much too monotonous life for some time back; and that is not well for anyone, especially for a young girl. A limitation of interests; that is not wholesome. The mind becomes morbid; and exaggerates trifles. And in the case of Maisrie, she has been used to change and travel; I should think the unvarying routine of our life of late, both as regards our employments and amusements, extremely prejudicial to her health and spirits——" "Why, she seems very well!" Vincent said, anxiously—for he knew not what all this might mean.