It was Kitty herself who spoke first. Her thought of Gilbert associated itself with that other subject about which she was also so glad--the coming of her father, and it was of him she spoke. "Do you remember my father, Gilbert?" she asked. "Perfectly," replied Gilbert. "I had just come back from school for the last time, and--he was very kind to me. Of course, I remember him quite well. And--and--it was then that he brought you to our house." "That was seven years ago," said Kitty. "Seven years! I haven't seen him for all these years. I wonder if he is much changed? He will see a great change in me. I was only a girl, a little girl, then, and now I am a woman." As she uttered the last words she glanced a little apprehensively at her companion, for she felt she had perhaps given him an opportunity. She saw his face was clouded; his eyes were fixed on a point in the distance, and he did not speak. "Your father's return," at length said he, with a sigh, "will make a difference, I fear." "In what way?" inquired Kitty, not at once following hard on the track of what was passing in his mind. "He will take you from us," said Gilbert; and then he added, inconsequently and involuntarily, "I wonder if he will like me?" And the girl now understood. "Like you! Of course he will," she exclaimed, in a tone which made him proud and happy. There was an emphasis in her voice which seemed to assert that it would be impossible for her father to criticise him--at all events adversely. "It would mean so much to me," he exclaimed, turning towards her. Kitty stole a glance at him, and she observed that his face was no longer clouded, but bore a grave, questioning expression like that of a man in doubt with regard to some deeply serious matter. "It would mean all the world to me," he said, meeting her glance. "Why?" rose to Kitty's lips, but the words went no further. For as Gilbert kept his gaze fastened upon her, a subtle change was worked in his eyes; they were no longer shaded with doubt or anxious inquiry; they searched and challenged her with passionate appeal; they unmistakably asked the question of questions man can put to woman. And though no sound passed Kitty Thornton's lips, she made no pretence of misunderstanding him. All the woman in her instantaneously rose up in quick response. All the love in her heart suddenly surged up in a great wave of feeling which flooded her eyes, now deep pools of light, with an unmistakable answer to the unmistakable question in his, thus bent upon her. Yet she trembled slightly, for she felt herself in the grasp of something new and strange and delightful, but just a little terrible and alarming. And when Gilbert Eversleigh saw what he saw in Kitty's eyes, self-control became impossible, and he could restrain himself no longer. "Kitty, Kitty," he said, in a deep earnest voice which thrilled the girl as she listened--"Kitty, my darling, I love you, I love you!"