"Youth! There! You treat me as if I were a boy," he cried angrily. "Can I help seeming so young?" "No," she said, taking his hand, "But you are in heart and ways very, very young, Christie Bayle. Am I to tell you again that it was this brought about our intimacy, for I found you so fresh in your young manliness, so different to the gentlemen I have been accustomed to? Come: forget all this. Let us be friends." "Friends? No, it is impossible," he cried bitterly. "I know I am boyish and weak, and that is why you hold me in such contempt." "Contempt? Oh, no!" "But, some day," he pleaded, "I'll wait--any time--" "No, no, no," she said flushing, "it is impossible." "Then," he raged as he started up, "I am right. You love some one else. Who is it? I will know." "Mr Bayle!" There was a calm queenly dignity in her look and words that checked his rage; and she saw it as he sank into the nearest chair, his face bent down upon his hands, and his shoulders heaving with the emotion that escaped now and then in a hoarse sob. "Poor boy!" she said to herself as the indignation he had roused gave way to pity. "Christie Bayle," she said aloud, as she approached him once more, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "Don't touch me," he cried hoarsely as he sprang up; and she started back, half frightened at his wild, haggard face. "_I_ might have known," he panted. "Heaven forgive you! Good-bye--good-bye for ever!" Before Millicent could speak he had reached the door, and the next minute she heard his hurried steps as he went down the street. VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER NINE. THE SCALES FALL FROM SIR GORDON'S EYES. Millicent stood listening till the steps had died away, and then sat down at the writing-table. "Poor boy!" she said softly, as she passed her hand over her eyes, "I am so sorry." She laid down the pen, and ran over her conduct--all that she had said and done since her first meeting with the curate; but ended by shaking her head, and declaring to herself that she could find nothing in her behaviour to call for blame. "No," she said, rising from the table, after writing a few lines which she tore up, "I must not write to him; the wound must be left to time." A double knock announced a visitor, and directly after Thisbe King, the maid, ushered in Sir Gordon, who, in addition to his customary dress, wore--what was very unusual for him--a flower in his button-hole, which, with a great show of ceremony, he detached, and presented to Millicent before taking his seat. As a rule he was full of chatty conversation, but, to Millicent's surprise, he remained perfectly silent, gazing straight before him through the window. "Is anything the matter, Sir Gordon?" said Millicent at last. "Papa is out, but he will not be long." These words roused him, and he smiled at her gravely.