"I am sorry," said Daphne, "that I am the cause--the innocent cause," with a stress on the adjective, "of your suffering the Church's censure." And then came a long pause, during which both stood looking at each other: he with undisguised love and admiration, she with evident distrust and fear. Each seemed afraid to break the silence. "Miss Leslie," he continued, speaking slowly, as if it were difficult to find words, and his breathing came thick and heavy, "you can guess why in painting that picture I was enabled, in the absence of the original, to reproduce your features with such fidelity?" "I cannot tell." This was a falsehood on her part--a pardonable one, perhaps. She knew the reason as well as he did, and dreaded what was coming. At last, after another long pause, came the momentous declaration: "It was _love_ that aided my memory." With his hands tremulously clasped, he bent forward, his dark eyes fixed on Daphne's face. Hers were bent on the ground. I had never seen her looking more beautiful. "Yes," repeated Angelo, speaking with more ease now, as if his avowal of love had removed the restraint from his speech, "it was love that aided my memory. It was love, if classic story speak truth, that drew the first portrait." It was characteristic of him that even in his lovemaking he could not wholly avoid reverting to his adored art. "Yes," he continued, "it was love that inspired the production of my Madonna. Madonna!" he exclaimed in scornful tones, as if in contempt of his religion. "I know of no Madonna save you--your worship excludes all other. The saints are forgotten when I gaze on your face. You alone are my divinity. Visit my studio, and see how many pictures there are of that face which troubles me by day and haunts my dreams by night. Look in my desk, and see how many letters there are addressed to Miss Leslie--written, but never sent. Miss Leslie, you must know how much I love you! O, do not say that you do not return the feeling!" His cloak dropped back from his shoulders as he extended his arms in a pleading manner toward my cousin, his bronzed, handsome face glowing as I have seen the face of a Greek statue glow in the quivering sunset. He was not ignorant of his own personal charms, and his present attitude, acquired perhaps in the _atelier_ of the artist, was purposely adapted to display the statuesque grace of his figure. Daphne did not speak a word. I knew what her answer would be, and I knew that her reticence arose from her dread of the effect which that answer might have on the passionate nature of the artist. She had seen something of his nature that morning in the cathedral, and divined but too well that his love was of the character that turns by a leap to hatred.