“Nonsense!” interrupted his host, with great heartiness. “We’re always delighted to see you. I want you to look upon the Vicarage as your second home.” Shortly afterwards, according to his orders, Ponsonby appeared again. He spoke in an undertone to the Canon, who at once got up. “I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” he said, turning to Wroxham. “I have a parishioner waiting to see me--a very sad case. A poor woman who lost her husband a little while ago; and she’s looking out for number two, and can’t find him. A clergyman’s time is never his own.” “Oh, pray don’t mind me,” said Wroxham. “I shall be back in five minutes. Don’t go before I see you. Winnie will do her best not to bore you.” He went out. Wroxham stepped forward to Winnie, who was pretending to alter the arrangement of flowers in a vase. “I’m glad your father has left us alone, Winnie,” he said, fixing his _pince-nez_ more firmly. “I so seldom get a chance of speaking to you.” Winnie did not reply but pulled to pieces a marguerite. “What does it come to?” he asked. For a moment, not thinking of the old fancy, she made no answer; but then, remembering, held out the stalk with one remaining petal, and smiled. “He loves me not.” “It’s not true. He loves you passionately. He always will.” With a sigh Winnie threw away the flower. “Won’t you speak to me, Winnie?” “What do you want me to say?” He took her hand kindly, and looked into her eyes, trying to discover her thoughts, trying from sheer force of his own love, to make her tender. “Oh, Harry, I’m so unhappy,” she murmured at last. “I don’t know what to do.” “Can’t you love me, Winnie?” he asked, drawing her towards him. “Did you mean it when you told me never to hope?” “I said that only a week ago, didn’t I?” “You didn’t mean it?” She tore herself from him almost violently. “Oh, I utterly despise myself.” “But why? Why?” She looked for a long while into his pleasant clear blue eyes, as though she sought to read his very heart. “I wonder if you really care for me?” “I love you with all my being,” he cried, eagerly, finding in his ardent love a new eloquence. “You are all I care for in the world. You’re my very life. Ah, yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.” Winnie did not answer immediately, but smiled happily. When she spoke there was in her voice the tremor of tears. “I think I like to hear you say that.” “Ah, Winnie.” He held out his hands appealingly. “I’m so miserable,” she sighed, remembering again the events of the previous days. “I want some one so badly to care for me.” “Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter? I may be able to do something.” “It is kind of you to be nice to me,” she smiled, almost tenderly. “You’re far nicer than I ever thought you.” “Why do you torture me like this?” he cried, passionately. “Winnie, say you love me.” There was a silence. Then with a blush Winnie put her hand on his arm. A new soft look came into her eyes.