“And have you no word for me? No little word of hope?” She raised her eyes to his. It was but for a moment; for she could not longer withstand his impassioned gaze. But in that brief glance, half wondering, half shrinking, he read his answer, and in an instant she found herself enveloped in those mighty arms,—found herself lying across that broad chest, his right arm around her, his left supporting her head, that nestled with upturned face against his shoulder. With upturned face and closed eyes. She had surrendered at discretion. When she felt herself, again and again, pressed to his heart, she made no protest;—gave no sign when he devoured her cheeks, her lips, with kisses, countless, vehement-tender,—lay upon that broad shoulder in a kind of swoon. She had waited so long and it had come so suddenly, this cyclone of love! Lay there upon that broad chest,—she so little,—with upturned face but closed lids, from beneath which forced their way drop after drop of happy tears. Happy tears? Did not they too tremble, tremble, as they lingered, waiting to be kissed away? Lay there, nestled upon that strong arm, and drunk with the wine of young love; the past forgot, the future banished,—living in the present alone. A present, delicious, dreamy, and wrapped in rose-colored incense-breathing mist. Shutting out all the world save only him and her. From afar comes floating to her ear, from the Hall, the sound of muffled laughter,—comes floating the drowsy tinkling of the piano, meaningless and inane! All things else are shams. Love alone is real! Yes, pillow thy head upon that arm, thy heart upon that hope, while yet thou mayest! For dost not heed how within that deep chest, against which thy fair young bosom palpitates and flutters,—markest thou not how ’tis a lion-heart seems to beat therein? To beat thereunder with tempestuous thud, ominous of storm and wreck? And those eyes, so wondrous tender now, and soft (for even if thou hast not stolen a look between thy dewy lids, thou hast felt their caressing glances), and those loving eyes? Hast forgotten how their changeful, bickering flashes once filled thy heart with dread, even before he was aught to thee? If thou hast, dream on—dream on while thou mayest! CHAPTER LII. With the last word Alice dropped the manuscript on the table, and hastily left the room. Charley shot forth, with a vigorous puff, a ring of heroic proportions. “Upon my word, Jack, I didn’t think it was in the old girl! Capital! It is, by Jove!” “Capital,” said I. “Yes,” said he, “it is. But, I say, Jack—” “What?” said I, with some expectancy, for he had lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “It is very clever in the old girl, and all that, you know. Jove! didn’t she hit out on a high line? ‘Incense-breathing mist,’—how does that strike you, Hein? And ‘tempestuous thud?’—what have you got to say to that? And ‘bickering eyes?’ But I say, Jack-Whack, old boy—” “Well?”