"Ask your mistress to let me see her for one moment; don't you understand?" "They are just finishing dinner, sir: if you will step up to the drawing-room they will be there in a minute or two." But at last he got the little German maid to understand that he wished to see Miss Lind alone for the briefest possible time; and that she was to carry this message in an undertone to her mistress. By himself he made his way up-stairs to the drawing-room; the lamps were lit. He lifted books, photographs, and what not, with trembling fingers, and put them down again without knowing it. He was thinking, not looking. And he was trying to force himself into a masterful mood. She was only a child, he kept repeating to himself--only a child, who wanted guidance, instruction, a protecting hand. It was not her fancies, however generous and noble, that should shape the destinies of two lives. A beautiful child, ignorant of the world and its evil: full of dreams of impossible and unnecessary self-sacrifice, she was not one to ordain; surely her way in life was to be led, and cherished, and loved, trusting to the stronger hand for guidance and safety. There was a slight rustle outside, and presently Natalie entered the room. She was pale--perhaps she looked all the paler that she wore the long, sweeping black dress she had worn at Lady Evelyn's. In silence she gave him her hand; he took it in both his. "Natalie!" It was a cry of entreaty, almost of pain; for this fond vision of his of her being only a child, to be mastered and guided, had fled the moment he caught sight of this tall and beautiful woman, whose self-command, despite that paleness and a certain apprehension in the dark eyes, was far greater than his own. "Natalie, you must give me a clearer answer." He tried to read the answer in her eyes; but she lowered them as she spoke. "Was not my answer clear?" she said, gently. "I wished not to give you pain." "But was all your answer there?" he said quickly. "Were there no other reasons? Natalie! don't you know that, if you regretted your decision ever so little--if you thought twice about it--if even now you can give me leave to hope that one day you will be my wife--there were no reasons at all in your letter for your refusing--none at all? If you love me even so little that you regret--" "I must not listen to you," she said hurriedly. "No, no. My answer was best for us both. I am sorry if it pains you; but you have other things to think of; we have our separate duties in the world--duties that are of first importance. My dear friend," she continued, with an air of appeal, "don't you see how I am situated? I have no one to advise me--not even my father, though I can guess what he would say. I know what he would say; and my heart tells me that I have done right." "One word," said he. "This you must answer me frankly. Is there no other reason for your refusal? Is your heart free to choose?"