David's face softened; but instantly hardened again, as a fresh thought struck him. "Was this plan--this idea--in your mind," he demanded, "on that Sunday night when you first came to Brambledene Church?" Then, as Diana did not answer: "Oh, good heavens!" he cried, vehemently; "say it wasn't! My Lady of Mystery! Say you came to worship, and that all this was an after-thought!" Diana's clear eyes met his. They did not flinch, though her lips trembled. "I cannot lie to you, Cousin David," she said, bravely. "I had heard you were never coming back--it seemed a possible way out--it seemed my last hope. I--I came--to see if you were a man I could trust." David groaned; looked wildly round the room, as if for a way of escape; then sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. "I cannot do it, Miss Rivers," he said. "It would be making a mockery of God's most holy ordinance of matrimony--to wed you in the morning, knowing I should leave you forever in the afternoon. How could I promise, in the presence of God, to love, comfort, honour and keep you? The whole thing would be a sacrilege." He lifted a haggard face, looking at her with despairing eyes. Diana smiled softly into them. A moment before, she had expected to see him leave the room and the house, forever. That he should sit down and discuss the matter, even to prove the impossibility of acceding to her request, seemed, in some sort, a hopeful sign. She held his look while she answered. "Dear Cousin David, why should it be a mockery? Let us consider it reasonably. Surely, in the best and highest of senses, it might be really _rather_ true. I know you don't love me; but--you do _like_ me a little, don't you?" "I like you very much indeed," said David, woefully; and then, all of a sudden, they both laughed. The rueful admission had sounded so funny. "Why of course I like you," said David, with conviction; "better than any one else I know. But----" He paused; looked at her, helplessly, and hesitated. "I quite understand," said Diana, quickly. "_Like_ is not _love_; but in many cases 'like' is much better than 'love,' to my thinking. I know a very Christian old person, whom I once heard say: 'We are commanded in the Bible to love the brethren. I always _love_ the brethren, though I cannot always _like_ them.' Now I had much rather you liked me, and didn't love me, Cousin David, than that you loved me, and didn't like me! Wouldn't you? "And remember how St. John began one of his epistles: 'The Elder unto the well belovèd Gaius, whom I love in the truth.' I am sure, if you had occasion to write to me, and began: 'David, unto the well belovèd Diana, whom I love in the truth,' no one could consider it an ordinary love-letter, and yet it would answer the purpose. Wouldn't it, Cousin David?"