“To watch for you!” said Leoline, in a sly whisper. “And so I have got to know you very well!” “My own darling! And, O Leoline! may I hope--dare I hope--that you do not altogether hate me?” Leoline looked reflective; though her bleak eyes were sparkling under their sweeping lashes. “Why, no,” she said, demurely, “I don't know as I do. It's very sinful and improper to hate one's fellow-creatures, you know, Sir Norman, and therefore I don't indulge in it.” “Ah! you are given to piety, I see. In that case, perhaps you are aware of a precept commanding us to love our neighbors. Now, I'm your nearest neighbor at present; so, to keep up a consistent Christian spirit, just be good enough to say you love me!” Again Leoline laughed; and this time the bright, dancing eyes beamed in their sparkling darkness full upon him. “I am afraid your theology is not very sound, my friend, and I have a dislike to extremes. There is a middle course, between hating and loving. Suppose I take that?” “I will have no middle courses--either hating or loving it must be! Leoline! Leoline!” (bending over her, and imprisoning both hands this time) “do say you love me!” “I am captive in your hands, so I must, I suppose. Yes, Sir Norman, I do love you!” Every man hearing that for the first time from a pair of loved lips is privileged to go mad for a brief season, and to go through certain manoeuvers much more delectable to the enjoyers than to society at large. For fully ten minutes after Leoline's last speech, there was profound silence. But actions sometimes speak louder than words; and Leoline was perfectly convinced that her declaration had not fallen on insensible ears. At the end of that period, the space between them on the couch had so greatly diminished, that the ghost of a zephyr would have been crushed to death trying to get between them; and Sir Norman's face was fairly radiant. Leoline herself looked rather beaming; and she suddenly, and without provocation, burst into a merry little peal of laughter. “Well, for two people who were perfect strangers to each other half an hour ago, I think we have gone on remarkably well. What will Mr. Ormiston and Prudence say, I wonder, when they hear this?” “They will say what is the truth--that I am the luckiest man in England. O Leoline! I never thought it was in me to love any one as I do you.”' “I am very glad to hear it; but I knew that it was in me long before I ever dreamed of knowing you. Are you not anxious to know something about the future Lady Kingsley's past history?” “It will all come in good time; it is not well to have a surfeit of joy in one night. “I do not know that this will add to your joy; but it had better be told and be done with, at once and forever. In the first place, I presume I am an orphan, for I have never known father or mother, and I have never had any other name but Leoline.” “So Ormiston told me.”