She was tempting him to the uttermost; and her heart was sick with fear lest he might yield. This was the Eagle's last battle; and recreant Love fought with the Eagle against poor Billy, who had only his honour to help him. Margaret's face was pale as she bent toward him, her lips parted a little, her eyes glinting eerily in the firelight. The room was dark now save in the small radius of its amber glow; beyond that was darkness where panels and brasses blinked. "Yes," said Billy, gravely--"forgive me if I'm wrong, dear, but--I do think that. But you see you don't care for me, Peggy. In the summer-house I thought for a moment--ah, well, you've shown in a hundred ways that you don't care--and I wouldn't have you come to me, not caring. So I'm going to burn the paper, dear." Margaret bowed her head. Had she ever known happiness before? "It is not very flattering to me," she said, "but it shows that you--care--a great deal. You care enough to--let me go. Ah--yes. You may burn it now, Billy." And promptly he tossed it into the flames. For a moment it lay unharmed; then the edges caught and crackled and blazed, and their heads drew near together as they watched it burn. There (thought Billy) is the end! Ah, ropes, daggers, and poisons! there is the end! Oh, Peggy. Peggy, if you could only have loved me! if only this accursed money hadn't spoiled you so utterly! Billy was quite properly miserable over it. But he raised his head with a smile. "And now," said he--and not without a little, little bitterness; "if I have any right to advise you, Peggy, I--I think I'd be more careful in the future as to how I used the money. You've tried to do good with it, I know. But every good cause has its parasites. Don't trust entirely to the Haggages and Jukesburys, Peggy, and--and don't desert the good ship Philanthropy because there are a few barnacles on it, dear." "You make me awfully tired," Miss Hugonin observed, as she rose to her feet. "How do you suppose I'm going to do anything for Philanthropy or any other cause when I haven't a penny in the world? You see, you've just burned the last will Uncle Fred ever made--the one that left everything to me. The one in your favour was probated or proved or whatever they call it a week ago." I think Billy was surprised. She stood over him, sharply outlined against the darkness, clasping her hands tightly just under her chin, ludicrously suggestive of a pre-Raphaelitish saint. In the firelight her hair was an aureole; and her gown, yellow with multitudinous tiny arabesques of black velvet, echoed the glow of her hair to a shade. The dancing flames made of her a flickering little yellow wraith. And oh, the quaint tenderness of her eyes!--oh, the hint of faint, nameless perfume she diffused! thus ran the meditations of Billy's dizzied brain.