"Yes, and dreamy and strange, when you, who are such a big fine-looking fellow, might be all that a woman could love." "All that a woman could love?" he said thoughtfully. "Yes; instead of which you neglect yourself and go shabby and rough, and let your hair grow long. Oh, if I only could make you do what I liked. Come now, confess; you are very fond of Glynne?" He looked at her dreamily for a while, but did not reply. It was as though his thoughts were busy upon something she had said before, and it was not until Lucy was about to speak that he checked her. "Yes," he said, "you are right; I have given up everything to my studies. I have neglected myself, my mother, you, Lucy. What would you say if I were to change?" "Oh, Moray!" she cried, catching his hands; "and will you?--for Glynne's sake." "Hush!" he cried sternly; and his brows knit, as he looked down angrily in her face. "Lucy, you wish me to be strong; if I am to be, you must never speak like that again. I have been weak, and in my weakness I have listened to your girlish prattle about your friend. Have you forgotten that she is to be--Captain Rolph's wife?" "No," cried Lucy impetuously, "I have not forgotten; I never can forget it; but if she ever is his wife, she will bitterly repent it to the end." "Hush!" he exclaimed again, and his eyes grew more stern, and there was a quiver of his lip. "Let there be an end of this." "But do you not see that he is unworthy of her--that his tastes are low and contemptible; that he cannot appreciate her in the least, and--and besides, dear, he--he--is not honest and faithful." "How do you know this?" cried Alleyne sternly. Lucy flushed crimson. "I know it by his ways--by his words," she said, recovering herself, and speaking with spirit, "I like Glynne; I love her, dear, and it pains me more than I can say, to see her drifting towards such a fate. Why, Moray, see how she has changed of late--see how she has taken to your studies, how she hangs upon every word you say, how--oh, Moray!" She stopped in affright, for he clutched her arm with a violence that caused her intense pain. His brow was rugged, and an angry glare shot from his eyes, while when he spoke, it was in a low husky voice. "Lucy," he said, "once for all, never use such words as these to me again. There, there, little bird, I'm not very angry; but listen to me," and he drew her to his side in a tender caressing way. "Is this just--is this right? You ask me to be more manly and less of the dreaming student that I have been so long, and you ask me to start upon my new career with a dishonourable act--to try and presume upon the interest your friend has taken in my pursuit to tempt her from her duties to the man who is to be her husband. There, let this be forgotten; but I will do what you wish." "You will, Moray?" cried Lucy, who was now sobbing.