"He hasn't been well," I said. "Work in the slums has upset his health. He's a good fellow. Not one of those who go in for the Church as an easy means of obtaining five or six hundred a year and a snug parsonage, but an earnest, devout man whose sole object is to do good among his fellow-creatures. Would that there were more of his sort about." Thus we chatted on. It seemed as though she knew more of Yelverton than she would admit, and that she had learned with surprise of his whereabouts. Only once again, when she rose to go, I spoke to her of the great sorrow at my heart, and then alone with her in the silence of my room I implored her to reciprocate my love. She stood motionless, allowing her hand to rest in mine, while I reiterated my declaration of affection. But when I had finished she withdrew her hand firmly, and with a negative gesture burst into tears. I saw how agitated she was, how she trembled when her white hands came into contact with mine. She tried to escape me, but I would not release her. Loving her as I did, I was determined that she should not slip away from me. Surely, I urged, I, her oldest friend, had a right to her rather than a stranger whom she had only known a few brief weeks. She was unjust to me. Suddenly, while I was imploring earnestly that she would hesitate before thus casting my love aside, the clock of St Martin's struck the half-hour. She glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece, exclaiming-- "See! It is half-past eleven! I must go at once. I shall be locked out now, as it is. I've been late so often recently. You know how strict our rules are." "But tell me that I may hope, Muriel. Only tell me that I may hope." "It is useless," she answered hastily, twisting free her hand, and re-arranging her veil at the mirror. "I have told you. Let me go." "No, no! You shall not, unless you promise me. I love you, Muriel. You shall not pass out of my life like this." "It will be midnight before I get back," she cried distressed. "I had no idea it was so late as this!" "Your business matters not. To me your love is all--everything." She stood erect before me, statuesque, queenly, looking upon me with her dark-brown eyes, in which I thought I detected a glance of pity. But it was only for an instant. Her face suddenly grew hard and set. There was a look of firm determination, which told me that my hope could never be realised; that she had spoken the truth; that she loved another. "Good-bye," she said, in a voice half-choked with emotion, and as she put forth her hand I grasped it and pressed it to my lips. "Good-bye, Muriel," I murmured, with a bitterness felt in the depths of my soul. "But may I not go with you to your door?" "No," she responded, "I shall take a cab. Good-bye." And as the tears again rose in her eyes she turned and went out.