“Why, sir, do you, can you care whether it matters to me or no?” cried Delia, a little wildly. “Yes, I care,” he answered. There was a pause; the singing had ceased. Delia bent her head and rested unseeing eyes upon the bishop’s tombstone. “You take, sir, a curious tone for a stranger,” she said at last. “I would not have us strangers, Delia—did not you say the same King, the same faith, the same cause?” She turned as some one standing on defense. “What do you mean?” A slight smile crossed his face; it might have been sadness or contempt; he leaned heavily against the Abbey wall and his shadow was over Delia. “What do I mean?” he repeated; he looked at her in a very gentle manner. “I mean I should like to be in your thoughts sometimes—” She rose, and her muff fell unnoticed between them. “Am I in yours?” she asked slowly. “You have the sweetest face I have ever met,” he said quietly, “Is it likely I should forget you?” She went very pale and put her hands together in a bewildered way; he surveyed her gravely with a half-sad interest, standing very much at his ease and carelessly while she was tense and painfully still. “Delia,” he smiled. “Delia.” She stepped back. “What is it you want with me?” she said. He moved from his place. “Do you care for me?” he asked. “Could you ever care for me?” She fell back before him. “Oh, why do you ask?” she cried. His eyes rested on her with a curious expression as of yearning. “Because I care for you,” he answered. “Don’t you understand, Delia?” The first notes of the anthem were sounding through the silence as she answered faintly: “It cannot be you mean this....” She sat down heavily and clasped her trembling hands very tightly. “Well—but if I did mean it?” he inquired. “If you did mean it?” she whispered, looking up. “Ah, if you did mean it—” Her voice died away, she sat silent as if terrified; and now the sun left him and lay behind her head halo-wise and sparkled in her brown eyes. Mr. Wedderburn, looking very intently down at her, bent a little nearer. “Sweetheart—ye shall answer me,” he said. “Nay, ye shall—” “Ah, what will you force me to say?” she answered desperately. “What do you want?” He bent till the ringlets on his breast touched her shoulder; he very delicately smiled into her pale face. “Delia, answer me.” “Ah, my heart, I cannot!” she cried, with wild eyes on his face. “Surely I am answered,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and a slight flush passed over his pallor. “Surely you think of me as I of you, Delia—” With a little cry she rose up against the wall. “Indeed, I love you,” she said, breathing hard. “Ah, indeed—indeed—” Then she sank down again, hiding her face in her fluttering hands. He looked at her curiously, his lips touched with his little lazy half-smile. “I do not deserve it, Delia,” he said; then in a strange voice: “You and I—by such ways to this! You and I—look up and speak to me.” She dropped her hands and looked at him.