He was pale. Nevill had said he was not ill. But then Nevill may have drawn on his imagination for that as for many of his other statements. No, no, he was not ill of any ailment of the body. His eyes were bright and clear. He may have been faint and exhausted by his long, lonely watch, but he was not ill. What could it be? How could he sit there and show no resentment against the wearisome chatter of this other man? He seemed to take no notice of the talk, not to hear it. He did not speak to her beyond almost formal words of greeting. Yesterday she should have spoken to him, but matters were changed now. So long as he had been her unaccepted suitor she had felt free and untrammelled. Now she was shy and diffident with him. Surely he might speak to her. She had wittingly done nothing to make him act thus towards her. Could it be she had been too hasty, and that he considered, upon a night's reflection, she had not acted with propriety? Or could it be that he, having obtained the assurance he sought, had lost one of the principal sources of interest in her? All through breakfast he did not address a word to her. When he had finished they all rose, and passed into the drawing-room. Nevill called Miss Osborne's attention to something at one end of the room. Osborne, by a glance, conveyed to Miss Gordon that he wished to speak with her at the other. When they reached the window he turned, and, casting another of those quick, unquiet glances at her, said,-- 'I have had a terrible night.' He spoke so low those at the other end of the room could not hear him. 'What made it terrible?' she asked, trying to force a smile. 'You.' 'I?' She uttered a startled laugh. 'What have I done? Tell me at once. You may tell me.' 'You have done nothing. I was not disturbed by the past, but by the future.' Involuntarily she placed a hand on his arm, and looked up into his eyes with a swift, pleading glance. 'You did not think I could do anything unworthy of you, George?' He started. He took her hand spasmodically and pressed it. He looked into her eyes with a terrible tenderness. She had never called him by his Christian name before. This was their betrothal. From this moment all reserve between them was broken down--their joint lives dated. He answered hurriedly,-- 'No, child. But I had a dreadful dream, a dream in which I thought I lost you.' She pressed his hand, and looked into his eyes with profound constant glance, and whispered,-- 'Never, George, until you wish me to go.' 'Child, child, child!' he whispered passionately, 'I must speak to you privately--at once. Let us get out of this place for awhile. Oh, Marie, I do not know why, I feel as if you were already drifting away from me for ever!' 'Do I look as if I wanted to go?' She glanced at the other end of the room. She then looked up at him with an arch, joyous smile. 'Their backs are to us.' They were bent over some engravings in the portfolio. 'Say good morning to me.'