“Unmanly!” he echoed; “was it not unmaidenly in you, with your heart safely lodged in another’s keeping, to make so desperate a venture for mine----and for what? To make it a toy, to break it, and cast it aside as worthless, even as a child does a bauble!” He paused. He could hear her hysteric breathing, but no pity was stirred in his merciless heart. “Were you not young, beautiful, of proud birth? Ought you to wonder that you succeeded in your design---that you have won my heart----” “It is false! it is false! it is basely untrue!” she gasped, vehemently. “I swear to its truth! or why do I care to see or speak with you again,” he replied with animation. “I repeat it, Helen Grahame--I love you. You exerted yourself to accomplish that achievement, and you succeeded, having no love to give back in return. What atonement have you to offer to me for having destroyed the brightest hope in my life?” “In the fullness of an arrogant pride I have erred,” she replied, in a choking tone; “I am only too deeply conscious of my failings, and would gladly make reparation for all the wrong I have done, if in my power.” “It is in your power,” he interrupted, excitedly, “I know you cannot give me a heart that has gone, or a love which has been won by another; but I know that, under peculiar circumstances, you are separated from him, from home, from the enjoyment of the position you once held, and you cannot be happy as you are now circumstanced. I would make you happy--I would surround you with all the luxuries of wealth, I would place in your grasp all the pleasures the world can afford you, and only ask in return, your society.” “Oh, man! man! you make most barbarous use of your present advantage, to grossly and shamefully insult me,” she hissed, indignantly. “If I, in my wicked pride, have been guilty of the artifices with which you charge me, those artifices were expended upon a barren rock, upon which no flower grew. I tell you, man, you had no heart to lure, and your plea is as false as your present outrage is contemptible. Release me, or I will dare, by my screams, the very consequences you have pictured.” Lester Vane suddenly started, as though he heard sounds of some one approaching. “Hark!” he said, in a low tone; “if you would not be discovered, be silent.” “I am careless now of discovery. Unhand me wretch!” He still clutched her wrists, and she, exhausted by the scenes she had that night already gone through, together with her recent efforts to liberate herself, was now wholly powerless. He knew it, and availed himself of the advantage it gave him. Unheeding her words, he listened for further sounds with breathless attention; but, whatever they might have been, they were not repeated, and he went on speaking-- “I have resolved not to leave you, Helen,” he said, with determined emphasis, “until I have your promise to consent to my proposition, and an earnest that you intend to keep your word.” She sank upon her knees.