Ten o'clock struck, and Philip's momentous words to Maria were still unspoken. At last the watched-for opportunity came. In her search for some particular piece of music, Maria went downstairs to what she still called her schoolroom, and Philip followed. A single jet of gas was lighted, and she was stooping over an old canterbury when he put his arm round her waist. She had not heard his footsteps, and rose up startled. "Oh, Philip!" she cried, and sought to push his hand away. "Do not repulse me, Maria," he whispered, a strange earnestness in his generally laughing eyes. "I am here to tell you how truly and tenderly I love you. I am here to ask you to be my wife." "Oh, Philip!" was all that poor Maria could reiterate in that first moment of surprise. "You must have known all along that I loved you, and I ought perhaps to have spoken before," he continued. "But I cannot be silent longer. Tell me, my dearest, that you will be mine--my own sweet wife for ever!" Maria's face was covered with blushes. Her eyes met Philip's in one brief loving glance, but no word did she speak. He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly twice. His arms were round her, her head rested on his shoulder, when there came a sound of footsteps outside the door. An instant later, Philip was alone. How brief a time had sufficed to seal the fate of two persons for weal or woe! Philip felt intensely happy now that the ordeal was over--although he had never anticipated a refusal from Maria. No more gambling, no more dangerous visits to The Lilacs, or evenings in the billiard-room; life would be full of other and sweeter interests now. His mother would rejoice in his good fortune, and all would be _couleur de rose_ in time to come. 'Twas a pity that an unwelcome thought should intrude to mar the brightness. Somehow Philip began to think of the money he had drawn from the bank. "What a fool I was to break into the thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, his mood changing to bitterness. "I might have confined myself to the extra two hundred. That would not have so much mattered, while the thousand was enough for Tiplady. But to have lessened _that_ by--how much is it--sixty or seventy pounds! If I could but replace it! If we had but gold-fields over here as they have yonder," nodding his head in some vague direction, "where a man may dig up to-day what will last him to-morrow. No such luck for me. _I_ can't pick any up." A bustle in the hall--and Philip left the room. Lady Cleeve was passing out to her fly, which waited for her, escorted to it by good Dr. Downes. She had already stayed beyond her time: Philip would walk home later. He helped to place his mother in it, wished her goodnight, and returned to the rooms with the old Doctor.