“Most assuredly, if I can.” Donald saw a roseate flame, deeper than that in the stove, blaze in her cheeks. Tibby put her two hands to her forehead and shaded her eyes. “But you don’t,” she said. “Don’t what? I do not understand you.” “You don’t help me.” “But you must first tell me how.” “O, you are bound to make me go down in the dust before you,” she said. “You will not—help me. Suppose you unravel the work, back to—to—that time—when you—asked me to be your wife,” she whispered. “Tibby, Tibby, darling, do not jest with me!” Donald took the pink fingers in his, and the downcast eyes were uncovered save by the dark lashes. “Look at me, Tibby, and tell me—if I ask you the same question again, what will you say?” “Yes, Donald, if you can bear to take such a wilful, good-for-nothing girl as I have been.” “Tibby, dear, it is love I want, not gratitude. If it is because I saved your life—” “Indeed, indeed, Donald, it is because—I—I love you, have always loved you,—ever since—” “Since when, sweetheart?” “Since I found you were the one man I could not control,” she whispered. CHAPTER XXXII A SURPRISE At Boxwell Hall a large audience sat expectantly waiting the appearance of Mrs. Lucien. Among the members present there were five with whom our readers are familiar. The lights were yet turned low, and there was the usual buzz and hum of low-voiced conversation which even those afflicted with superstitious awe could not repress. “I had some trouble to persuade Major Walden to come,” said Nathan in an aside to his wife. “He has such a horror of this sort of thing, he flatly refused at first; but when I asked him as a personal favor to meet you, he consented.” “I am sure he can’t denounce Mrs. Lucien, if she is as Elinor describes her,” said Lissa. “I have really begun to like her, just from the description. Ah, I wonder if she is coming now. What a perfectly seraphic face.” Mrs. Lucien was clothed in a soft, clinging gown of white wool, from which her pure, oval face arose in statuesque grace and beauty. The dark waves of her hair were brushed back from the rounded forehead and gleamed in shining ripples to her neck as the glare of the foot-lights fell upon her. “What a striking face! A painter might have made a model of her for a Madonna. She is grace personified,” whispered Alice. “I can think of nothing but a statue of one of the graces.” “Doesn’t she look more like a painting of St. Cecilia?” Mark replied. “Yes, she does look like her. She is about to speak.” The chairman of the psychical club led her forward and briefly introduced her as Madame Lucien, who would give exhibitions of psychometric reading and slate-writing. Mrs. Lucien bowed slightly for a moment to the vociferous clapping of hands which greeted her, and then spoke in a low, sympathetic voice, which thrilled her hearers.