"And you never gave a thought to—what it would mean to me!" Doris's hand still rested gravely on his arm. She said no more, and his face was set as if in iron. But the strain was too great, and his self-control broke. He seized her hand, and kissed it stormily. Twice again came that strange short laugh, almost like a sob. "Is there no hope—none?" he struggled to say. "My father will not allow it, Dick. And I never will marry without his consent. But—I can say so much as this, that I do know my own mind now. I know that at least I couldn't marry anybody else. If that is any comfort—" His chest heaved convulsively. "Any comfort! To know that you—care still! To know that you—love me! My darling—" She held him off firmly, with both hands. "No, no! Nothing further. I've told you so much, because I can't bear to see you so unhappy. But things can only be like that. I know now that you love me, and you know that I love you. We are not engaged. You are free to marry to-morrow, if you like." He exclaimed indignantly. "Yes; but you might change your mind. It might mean too long, the waiting." "Too long for you—!" huskily. "It doesn't seem to me now as if it could be," she replied. CHAPTER XXXVII The Mischief-Maker Again "IS Mrs. Stirling at home?" The caller, in her best toque and white kid gloves, put this question with a beaming smile. Mrs. Stirling was at home, but would be engaged for the next quarter of an hour. That did not matter in the very least. Mrs. Brutt was in no hurry. She would be most happy to wait. She stepped out, and trailed impressively after the maid. It was well for her peace of mind that she could not see and hear through brick walls. "Mrs. Brutt!" The tone was significant. "Did you not tell her that I was engaged?" "You said, ma'am, for a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Brutt doesn't mind waiting." "If I'd known who it was, I would have been engaged altogether." This was an aside. No love had ever been lost between the two widow-ladies. Then to the maid—"You can bring tea in about twenty minutes." To herself again—"It shall be an elastic quarter of an hour!" Which it certainly was. Mrs. Brutt, unconscious of her hostess' sensations, but much occupied with her own, stood poised in a graceful attitude at the exact centre of the room, conning over all that she meant to say. She had arrived with a definite purpose. Unwittingly, the Squire had given her deep offence. It was almost inevitable that he should do so, sooner or later, since she ranked in her own eyes as a personage of high importance, while in his eyes she was nobody.