“And I love him so,” she repeated, softly. “It would be such happiness to do this for him. Perhaps he would not love me very much just yet, but when I had him all to myself it would come little by little. I could make it come; a woman can when she has a man all to herself. I am sure of it. I should have no fear at all.” Her eyes were very soft now and very bright. One forgot her sharp features and sallow cheeks. Poor girl! Then suddenly she looked away from the fire, and, rising, came over to my side. “You are wondering why I have come to you to tell you my secret,” she said. “I will tell you. I am afraid of you. You are so handsome, and I am plain. Oh! yes, I am--I know it. Never mind, I love him. But he does not know that, and he admires you. I see him look at you, and though he is kind to me, he does not look at me like that. And you--you do not care for him. I have watched you, and I am sure of it. You do not want him, do you?” “No, I do not want him,” I answered, but without looking at her. “I know you don’t. I want to promise you something. I believe that Philip Maltabar is somewhere in this neighborhood, and I believe--no, I am sure--that in some way you are interested in him. Your father knows. That is why you have kept me from him. But never mind, I want to forget all that if you will just help me a little. I shall go away from here, presently. If I should come back again, and I should find Philip Maltabar--well--never mind. I will forgive, and I will forget. God shall judge between those two--I will bury my desire for vengeance. This I swear--if you will help me a little.” “But how?” I asked, blandly. “What can I do?” “You can help me simply by keeping away from Mr. Deville,” she went on, hastily, a certain bluntness creeping into the manner of her expression as she reached the heart of her subject. “If you are not there, then he will be content with me, I can talk to him. I can make him understand by degrees. There! I suppose you think this is very unwomanly of me. It is unwomanly, it is despicable. I should detest another woman who did it. But I don’t care--I want him so much. I love him better than life,” she cried, with a little burst of passion. “I shall die if he does not care for me--not as I care for him, of course, but just a little--and more afterwards.” I leaned over and rested my hand upon hers. I felt a sudden kindness toward her. I don’t know what instinct made me promise--I suppose it was pity. There was something so pathetic in her intense earnestness. “Yes, I will do what you wish,” I said, softly; “but----” “But what? Are you making conditions?” I shook my head. “I make no conditions. Only I wanted to say this to you. Do you think it is wise to let yourself care so much for any one who after all may not care for you at all? It is like staking one’s whole happiness upon a chance. It is a terrible risk.” She smiled at me faintly, and shook her head.