As if drawn forward more by his subtle will than by her own wish, she took his arm, and they walked back and forth, twice or thrice, in the light of the window, and paused directly under the limb of the tree, which seemed to shake with the throbbing of my heart. A beam of light fell athwart the face of James, so that I could see its expression, as he talked to the young creature on his arm--a handsome face, dark, glowing with passion and determination, but sinister. I prayed, in my heart, for Mary to have eyes to read it as I read it. "Mary, you promised me an answer this week. Give it to me to-night. You have said that you would be my wife--now, tell me how soon I may claim you. I do not believe in long engagements; I want to make you mine before any disaster comes between us." "Did I promise you, James? I really did not know that you considered what I said in the light of a promise. Indeed, I am so young, and we have always been such friends--cousins, you know--that I hardly understand my own feelings. I do wish you would not overpersuade me; we might both be sorry. I never believed in the marriage of cousins; so I do not think you ought to feel hurt, cousin James." He interrupted the tremulous voice with one a little sharper than his first persuasive tone: "I am surprised that you do not feel that I regard you as already betrothed to me. I did not think you were a coquette, Mary. And, as for cousinship, I have already told you what I think of it. I know the secret of your reluctance--shall I betray it to you?" She was silent. "Your heart is still set on that scoundrel. One might suppose that dread and loathing would be the only sentiment you could entertain toward a traitor and--I will not speak the word, Mary. You took up swords in his defense, and persisted in accusing us of wronging him, against the judgment of your own father and friends. I suspected, then, by the warmth of your avowed friendship for him, that he had, among his other _honorable_ deeds, gained my little cousin's heart, for the pleasure of flattering his self-love. And I shall suspect, if you persist in putting me off, when you know that your father desires our union, and that my whole existence is wrapped up in you, that he still holds it, despite of what has passed." "He never 'gained' my heart by unfair means," said the girl, speaking proudly. "I _gave_ him what he had of it--and he never knew how large a part that was. I wish he _had_ known, poor Richard! for I still believe that you are all wronging him cruelly. I am _his friend_, James, and it hurts me to hear you speak so of him. But that would not prevent my being your friend, too, cousin--" [Illustration: Page 223. IN THE OAK.]