“Would you take mamma away from here as well?” she asked. “I mean, if--if I ever said yes.” “Of course I would, if she would come. She is my kinswoman, you know--at least, my friend’s kinswoman.” “I’ll think about it, and tell you later,” she said, springing away with one of her swift, bird-like movements, and was gone before he could speak again. On the way to her own room, she passed the apartments which had first been occupied by the first Lady Cranstoun, and which were now given to the supposed Lord Carthew. The doors both of the bedroom and sitting-room were wide open. Stella glanced into the latter, and perceived the wounded man lying fully dressed on a sofa near the fire, apparently asleep, for his eyes were closed and his dark eyelashes rested on his cheek. He looked paler than usual, but handsomer than ever, with the extra touch of delicacy imparted by loss of blood and unaccustomed weakness. Stella looked again, and creeping in, stood gazing down upon him until her breath came quickly, and tears gathered in her eyes. Under his half-closed lids, Hilary was watching her, and when he saw her red lip quiver and her arms involuntarily moving toward him, his self-control broke down. Suddenly stretching up his right arm, he drew her head down to his, and pressed his lips passionately to hers. CHAPTER VII. A KISS TOO LONG. “Alas, how easily things go wrong! A sigh too much or a kiss too long; There comes a mist and a blinding rain, And things are never the same again!” Stella had never heard the verses, but something of the same thought entered into her mind as she drew back, pale and quivering, after that one passionate kiss interchanged between her and Hilary. In one magical moment she had learned so much--had learned that she loved Hilary, that he loved her, and, moreover, that the thought of marrying her suitor of the morning, which up to now she had been able to cherish at least without aversion, had suddenly grown intolerable to her. All this had been taught her by a kiss, the first which ever a man had laid upon her lips. With downcast eyes and rapidly beating heart, she stood now before Hilary, as he rose from the sofa and bent down toward her, holding both her little trembling hands in one of his. “It was my fault,” he whispered, humbly. “Forgive me.” “I--I have nothing to forgive,” the girl said, unsteadily, still without looking up. “I must go, Lord Carthew.” “If I were really Lord Carthew,” he said, “there might be some excuse. But I am not. By a freak of my friend’s, we had changed names for a while when that accident happened to me. But I never intended the trick to continue. It is true that he begged me, as a favor, to keep silence on the subject, especially before you. But, after my folly and imprudence, I must confess the truth. I cannot masquerade any longer. Miss Cranstoun, try to forgive me.” “I have nothing to forgive.”