He started violently. He had not imagined that she would dare to give utterance to such words as these; while she knew, the instant that they were spoken, that instead of gaining his affection, she had forfeited even his respect. There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Lord Carrol said very gravely, but still very gently: “Miss Richards, you have become so excited over what has transpired, that I think you are hardly conscious of, or responsible for what you have said. Shall we go in now?” “No!” she answered, lifting her head proudly, and stifling her sobs, although she still clung tightly to his arm, as if she could not let him go. “No; I will not go in yet. Having said so much, I must say more. You are right. I am not responsible for the words which I have spoken. I did not mean to speak them—they escaped me unawares; but since I have spoken them, I cannot recall them, and my secret is mine no longer. Oh!” she continued, with a heart-breaking sob, “pity me, have compassion on me, _forgive_ me!” “I have nothing to forgive,” he said, kindly; “and, believe me, I am very sorry that your nerves should have been so overtaxed to-night; but,” and his face flushed, “perhaps it will be better for both of us if I tell you that, however much I may esteem you, my heart could never respond to the wish you have expressed; it has long been given to another. I thought you knew this; I thought your knew that—I loved your cousin, Miss Gladstone.” Her hands dropped from his arm as if they had been burned, while keen, quivering pains shot all over her body at this avowal. Her head came up with a haughty gesture, her eyes blazed with sudden anger, her red lips curled with bitter scorn. She had humiliated herself—she had bowed her proud spirit to the dust to win him, and now he dared to tell her this—dared to tell her that he loved the girl whom she hated, whom she had triple cause to hate in that she was far her superior in every way—she had won the heart of the only man whom she had ever loved, and had laid her under an obligation which she could never repay. “I believe I have been _mad_!” she whispered, fiercely, through her tightly shut teeth, which shone like lovely pearls in the moonlight. “Yes, I must have been mad,” she went on; “some spirit of evil must have possessed me to make me tell you what I have; for—hear me, Lord Carrol—I do _not_ love you; I _hate_ you! If I ever had any love for you, it has turned to hate now, and I detest the girl whom you profess to love, and for whom you have dared to confess your affection, knowing how I hate her.” She pressed her hands wildly to her temples, with a low moan. It was not so easy as she thought to hate where she had loved so passionately.