“It’s--it’s--rather a dilapidated sort of place,” she continued after a moment’s pause, “but perhaps I’ll get used to it.” There was distinct pleading for confirmation in this. Her voice was slightly husky. Essex, however, with that perversity which marked all his treatment of her, said: “Do you think you will? It’s difficult for a woman to accommodate herself to such changed conditions--I mean a woman of refinement, like you.” She continued feebly to make her stand. “But my conditions have changed so much in the last two or three years. I ought to be used to it; it’s not as if it was the first time. Before my father got sick we were so comfortable. We were rich and had quantities of beautiful things like that cabinet. And as they have gone, one by one, so we have come down bit by bit, till I am left like this.” She made a gesture to include the empty room and turned back to the fire. “But you won’t stay like this,” he said, throwing a glance over the bare walls. “Don’t you think so?” she said, looking into the fire with dejected eyes. “You’re kind to try to cheer me up.” “You can be happy, protected and cared for, with your life full of sunshine and joy--” He stopped. Every step he took was of moment, and he was not the type of man to forgive himself a mistake. Mariposa was looking at him, frowning slightly. “How do you mean?” she said. “With my voice?” “No,” he answered, in a tone that suddenly thrilled with meaning, “with me.” That quivering pause which falls between a man and woman when the words that will link or sever them for life are to be spoken, held the room. Mariposa felt the terrified desire to arrest the coming words that is the maiden’s last instinctive stand for her liberty. But her brain was confused, and her heart beat like a hammer. “With me,” Essex repeated, as the pause grew unbearable. “Is there no happiness for you in that thought?” She made no answer, and suddenly he moved his chair close to her side. She felt his eyes fastened on her and kept hers on the fire. Her other offers of marriage had not been accomplished with this stifling sense of discomfort. “I’ve thought,” his deep voice went on, “that you cared for me--a little. I’ve watched, I’ve desponded. But lately--lately--” he leaned toward her and lowered his voice--“I’ve hoped.” She still made no answer. It seemed to her none was necessary or possible. “Do you care?” he said softly. She breathed a “yes” that only the ear of love could have heard. “Mariposa, dearest, do you mean it?” He leaned over her and laid his hand on hers. His voice was husky and his hand trembling. To the extent that was in him he loved this woman. “Do you love me?” he whispered. The “yes” was even fainter this time. He raised the hand he held to his breast and tried to draw her into his arms.