"Look, Marya," she called gladly and sweetly. "Come here; were ever things so lovely? So the irises grew at home, knee-deep in the clear pools, like enchanted princes. And the lilies,--over them the dragon-flies hovered all day and between their stems the goldfish slept and played." She moved with the last word and saw Stanief; a tall, soldierly presence in the filagree room. "Oh," she exclaimed faintly, "pardon, monseigneur!" "For what?" he demanded. "It is I who should apologize for disturbing you here. I have a letter from the Emperor for you." "Thank you, monseigneur," she murmured, and accepted the massive envelop to lay it listlessly on the table. Stanief looked at her. Like one of her own slim flowers she stood, her shimmering white morning dress leaving her round throat and arms bare. The full soft hair was caught in a great coil low on her neck, she wore no jewel except the slender gold chain and cross gleaming through the lace at her bosom. "Why are you afraid of me?" he asked abruptly. "Why do you shrink from me as if my touch were pain? What has come between us, Iría?" "Nothing, monseigneur," her fingers inter-laced in feverish nervousness. "Nothing? Iría, Iría, will you tell me now to take you with me into my exile?" "Yes, monseigneur," came the low reply, but her head drooped. "And you think I would accept the sacrifice? You think--" He checked himself with a violent effort. "I am sorry," she responded confusedly. "I--I have not changed." "Then it is I?" "No, no; please let me go, monseigneur." "It is I who will go," he answered, shaken out of self-mastery for once. "Iría, I do not know who awakened you, who showed you the truth, perhaps it was my kindly cousin. But it is clear that you have seen. Iría, was your trust also so weak that it went down before a breath? Because I loved you, must you shrink from me? Child, I loved you the first day that you gave me your shy friendship, I loved you all the months afterward, and was my care of you less careful for that? If you could have continued in your ignorance, would I have failed you?" Before his passion and grief she retreated, mute, colorless, her dazed eyes upon him. "You!" she gasped, "You--" then suddenly turned and hid her face among the heaped flowers. "I did not hope that you could love me; I knew better than that," he said. "But I did hope that you would trust me. I thought I had earned that much, Iría. Let my fancies go; I will undo this as far as I may. You shall stay in the capital or go to your own home, whatever you choose. Only this week remains, and I lay down both my charges. Hush, and do not grieve; this is no fault of yours." She was sobbing helplessly, her golden head among the white and purple blossoms. He drew a quick breath and stood for a moment, struggling to regather around him the poor tattered cloak of reserve. But it was a relief to him that she could not see his expression when he crossed to her side.