little behind and on one side of him, but he felt her there, turned softly, and passing his hand gently around her shoulders drew her down to his side. They were on the sofa between the two windows, and the light of the candles on the mantel-piece fell upon the picture—he drew her small and elegant head down upon his bosom with the radiant face turned towards him, and he gazed down on it as though his soul would escape through breath and glance, and die upon it. She could not meet those tender deep blue eyes, fixed so earnestly on her face; her black eye-lashes fell upon her crimson cheeks, and her brow burned; he stooped till his golden curls mingled with her black ringlets, and pressed his lips to hers. Quickly she whirled her head from under his arm, but continued to sit by him; he was silent, thoughtful, while he held her hand and pressed it from time to time. “Raymond!” at last she said. “Love!” “What is the matter?” “Why, dearest Raymond, you are grave, unusually grave—will you tell me the reason?” “If my Hagar, in her deepest heart, is conscious of having given me cause for pain, is not that enough?” The girl turned her glowing cheek and heaving bosom away from him; her heart was struggling violently with its chains, she did not speak for some time. At last he said— “Have I offended you; have I wounded you, Hagar?” “No—no—_neither_—you are too gentle and generous to do either, but I have hurt myself in your estimation.” He drew her to his bosom in the gentlest embrace, and bowed his soft cheek upon her face so slowly, tenderly; but she broke from his loving hold with a strangled sob and escaped to her eyrie. Yes, it was too true, her liberty was gone. The caress of love had riveted the chain of bondage about the maiden’s will—the kiss of love had left the mark of ownership upon the maiden’s cheek. Yes, the wild falcon was caught in the jesses. True, hers was the most gentle captor in the world, it was the gentleness that disarmed her, the tenderness that subdued her; still she _was_ caught, disarmed, subdued, and she did not like it—she could have reproached her own heart as though it had been a traitor, sitting up before her. Why, she softly inquired of herself, why should Raymond’s good or ill opinion bring _her_ joy or pain who utterly defied all other opinion? She could not tell, she could neither break her fetters nor understand how they came to be riveted so fast—verily, she was like the young wild horse of the prairie struggling with the lasso around her neck, unknowing how it came there, unable to shake it off. This feature in love was new to her; this subjugation of the will, this thorn in the rose, and it rankled not a little. She would do as she pleased, she said to herself. Sophie had never controlled her; Emily had never controlled her; and her horse’s hoofs had naturally and very unconsciously spurned dust and defiance in the faces of those who had pursued her with blame.