"You know, I feel you would not be safe alone in London," said Denzil, seriously. "No--not simply because you are a girl; I know girls do these things now. But because you have enemies, and they might find you out. Remember you are not yet of age. What if your uncle should try to recapture you?" He saw that this shot had told. Rona grew white. "Oh!" she said, irresolutely, "but I should think that is safe now. He has left me alone all this time." "But he may be watching for just such a chance." She lifted her liquid eyes to his face. "I do not want to go away," she said frankly, "but I do not want to be a burden--a sponge. You have been so kind, I want you to know that I am very far from expecting you to do more." Her look fell away from the expression in his. "Write stories, by all means," said Denzil, his eyes resting fascinated on the brim of her lowered hat. "But save your money for future emergencies. Meanwhile, it is holiday-time. Shall we postpone the discussion for a few weeks? I feel, in this weather, as if I did not want to talk business. Give me my holiday--you take yours. Stay here meanwhile, and when the summer days are over we can decide upon future plans. Come--show me the stables, the kitchen-garden, the palm-stoves--I have been away an age, and I want to look at everything!" He held out his hand to her, and, with a hesitation which Miss Rawson remarked, she gave him hers. He raised her to her feet, and they stood together a moment, looking into each other's eyes. Rona would not have been human had she failed to read the admiration in his. His heart swelled with the true Cophetuan delight. He had all, she had nothing but her beauty. He was master of his actions and his fortune; there was nobody to dictate to him, should he marry the beggar maid. And now the idea, which had so shyly nestled in his heart for two years, suddenly shook its wings and soared. He would marry this interesting girl, whose grace and dignity were worthy of being raised to his throne. And for the first time the same idea struck Rona--struck her with a shock. Never till that moment had she thought of Denzil as a man who might love and wish to marry her. He had seemed older, too staid--as she said to David--too fiddle-faddly. But now that she was grown, up, she knew that the disparity between them was by no means too great--the difference between nineteen and thirty-three. They wandered into the old walled fruit garden, down past a long strip of border, garnished in one place with bits of quartz in strange devices. "I never come past here," said Denzil, falteringly, "without thinking of my dead brother." "Your brother?" said the girl, in speechless amazement. "I never knew you had a brother!"