“Not now, perhaps, but some time you will,” he said. He had risen from his knee, and stood opposite to her, banishing as best he could his confusion from his face. “Not now; I have been rash, I have frightened you with an avowal which I ought not to have made so soon; but Lucy, dearest, the time will come.” “Not now, or ever!” she cried; “oh, Mr. St. Clair, believe me! don’t let it be all to go over another time; neither now nor ever. I may be frightened, I never thought of anything like this before; but now you have made me think of it, I know--_that_ is impossible, it could never, never be!” “You are very sure of yourself,” he said, with a little involuntary bitterness; for it is not pleasant to be rejected, even when you think it is the dictate of fright, and St. Clair did not think so, but only pretended so to think. “Yes, I am very, very sure. Oh, indeed, I am sure. Anything, anything else! If I could help you to get on, if I could be of any use. Anything else; but that can never be!” said Lucy, with tremendous firmness. He looked at her with cynical scorn in his eyes. “I will never thrust anything upon a lady against her will,” he said, “even to save her from the blood-hounds; one can not do that, but the time will come-- I know very well the time will come.” He was as much agitated as if indeed he had loved Lucy to desperation. He went to the table and collected his books with a tremendous vehemence. “I must now wish you good-morning, Miss Trevor,” he said. And it was with a troubled heart that Lucy saw him go. What could she have done otherwise? She could not bear that any one should leave her thus. She longed to be able to offer him--anything that would salve his wound. If he would only take some of the money! if he would only accept her help, since she could not give him herself. She looked after him with her heart wrung, and tears in her piteous eyes. CHAPTER XXXVIII. ONE DOWN, AND ANOTHER COME ON.