"No," she said, rather wistfully, and her eyes were averted again, "that is the last thing you need think about, Vincent; no man will ever come between you and me. No man will ever take your place in my regard—and—and esteem——" "Is that all, Maisrie?" he said, gently; but in truth that sudden revelation had left him all trembling and overjoyed. He was almost afraid to speak to her, lest she should withdraw that unspoken avowal. "And—and affection: why should not I say it?—I may not have another chance," she went on. "You need not fear, Vincent. No man will ever come between you and me; but a woman will—and welcome! You will marry—you will be happy—and no one will be better pleased to hear of it all than I shall. And why," she continued, with a kind of cheerfulness, "why, even in that case, should we speak of any one coming between us? We shall have the same affection, the same kind thoughts, even then, I hope——" "Maisrie, why do you talk like that!" he protested. "You know quite well that you will be my wife—or no one." She shook her head. "If you do not see for yourself that it is impossible—if you do not understand, Vincent—then some day I must tell you——" "Ah, but you have told me something far more important, and only a minute or two ago," said he. "You have told me all I want to know, this very morning! You are not aware of the confession you have made, since you came out on this breakwater? I have seen in your eyes what I never saw before; and everything else is to me as nothing. Difficulties?—I don’t believe in them. I see our way as clear as daylight; and there’s neither man nor woman coming between us. Oh, yes, I have discovered something this morning—that makes our way clear enough! Maisrie, do you know what wonderful eyes you have?—they can say so many things—perhaps even more than you intend. So much the better—so much the better—for I know they speak true." She did not seem to share his joyous confidence. "I must be going now, Vincent," she said. "Grandfather will wonder why I am so long in getting his newspapers. And I am glad to know you are no longer vexed with me. I could not bear that. And I will take care you shall have no further cause—indeed I will, Vincent." She was for bidding him good-bye, but he detained her: a wild wish had come into his head. "Maisrie," said he, with a little hesitation, "couldn’t you—couldn’t you give me some little thing to keep as a souvenir of this happy morning? Ah, you don’t know all you have told me, perhaps! Only some little thing: could you give me a sandal-wood bead, Maisrie—could you cut one off your necklace?—and I will get a small gold case made for it, and wear it always and always, and when I open it, the perfume will remind me of you and of our walks together, and the evenings in that little parlour——"