“Miss Dupont, you must not say that,” he returned, almost fiercely, “for my happiness—nay, my life depends upon your love.” “I cannot listen to such words as these, Mr. Moulton; my answer is final. Please allow me to return to the drawing-room.” “Never!” he replied, hotly, as he seized her in his arms with a convulsive clasp and rained kiss after kiss upon her white face. “Never until you yield to my love, my darling. My heart tells me that you are mine—mine by the right of my insatiable love, which nothing earthly can quell. No, no, my pretty one; lie still in these arms, which have ached to infold thee for months—nay, for years; while my tongue has burned to pour forth the story of my adoration, but never before have I dared to approach you with these words. My own, my own, you are about to be torn from me, and I cannot longer be silent. I cannot let you go; I would die to serve you, and do you think I will let the sea divide us? Never! I will follow you to the ends of the earth, and the land where you dwell shall be _my_ home. Dora—Dora Dupont, you must—you _shall_ be my wife!” He stopped, exhausted by his emotions, though he still held her pressed close to his fiercely throbbing heart. “Mr. Moulton, will you be good enough to unhand me? or shall I be obliged to call for assistance?” Ice could not have been harder or colder than the clear, frozen tones which fell upon his ear. In an instant his arms dropped from around her, and then they closed firmly across his breast, while he gazed upon her with eyes that almost burned her with their intense brightness. Scornfully erect she stood for a moment, returning his gaze with one full of defiance. Her white robes trailed in graceful folds around her; her head was thrown haughtily back, while her nostrils quivered and dilated with the virtuous indignation that surged beneath her heaving bosom. Juno in her wrath could not have been more majestic and glorious. “Your insulting words and deportment, sir, merit but one answer,” she sternly said. “Go, and never let me look upon your face again!” “By Heaven, I will not!” he replied, stung to madness by her look and tone. “Is there no pity in your heart for love like mine? I will not believe you so cold and dead to all feeling as your words imply.” “If you expected love, or sympathy even, from me, Mr. Moulton, you have taken the wrong way to obtain them. I am not one to be forced!” “Forgive me, my beautiful one; but I could not help it, and on my knees I beg your pardon,” pleaded Ralph Moulton, with white face and imploring eyes upraised to hers. “’Tis useless; I do not and cannot love you.” He was on his feet again in an instant, while the hot, angry blood mounted to his brow. “Is that answer final, Dora Dupont?” he asked between his set teeth. “It is,” she returned, coldly. “And now allow me, if you please, to return to my guests.” She began to wonder within herself how she had ever tolerated this man’s presence.