“No--not if you like to.” “Do you think--you--could ever call me--by mine?” “I don't know.” “Won't you try? It--it would make me very happy.” “El-El-ias--” so softly that it sounded more like a little sigh than like a word. “Oh! You make me so happy! But do you want to make me happier still?” “What shall I do?” “Tell me you are not sorry I love you.” “Oh, no; I am not sorry.” “Tell me--tell me that you are glad.” “Yes--I--I think--I am--glad.” “Oh, my love! Can't you say just one thing more? You know what. Please.” She breathed quickly. “Perhaps,” she whispered. Again Elias threw his arms around her, and drew her close to him. This time she offered no resistance. Their eyes met. So did their lips. “Oh, how hard your heart is beating!” she murmured softly. Presently they heard a footstep in the hall. “It is my father,” she said, moving away. “Shall we tell him?” Elias asked. “No, not yet. I will tell him after you have gone.” The old man entered, clean-shaven, and redolent of the barber's balmy touch. It was edifying, the matter-of-fact, unsentimental manner in which these young hypocrites thereupon began to talk and act. Yes, it _was_ strange, how rapidly the snow had melted; and it _did_ look as though they might have a green Christmas after all; and they neither of them believed in that lugubrious old proverb about a fat church-yard, any how; and, of course, Mr. Bacharach would stay to dinner, wouldn't he? and, well, he would like to, very much indeed, but he didn't want to wear out his welcome; and, oh, there wasn't the slightest danger of his doing that, was there, father? etc., etc. But whenever the old gentleman's back was turned, they stole an eloquent glance at each other; and now and then Elias found an opportunity slyly to snatch and press her hand. When he left, Christine went with him to the door. Never before had the simple process of leave-taking required such a length of time. He wandered about the street for a long while, ere he went home. There, he mounted to his studio, and, as usual, sat down at the window. Could it be the same studio that he had worked in, the other day? Could he be the same man? He was as nearly delirious as a person in sound health can be, without going sheer out of his senses. His brain whirled round and round. It was impossible for him to carry on a consecutive or coherent process of thought. Dazzling glimpses of the happiness that the future held in store for him, alternated with exquisite throes of joy, as he recalled what had happened that very day. His heart kept thrilling, and swinging from hot to cold, like a thing bewitched. A sweet smell clung to the palm of his hand, at the spot where hers had lain.