“Yes, I know that; but what is his English name?” “That I cannot tell you,” replied Helena, shaking her pretty head. “I know nothing beyond that he is Justinian, that I am his daughter, and that this is our island.” “It’s like ‘The Tempest,’ is it not? You are Miranda, Justinian Prospero, and I”— “And you?” queried Helena, with a slight blush. “Cannot you guess?” asked Maurice significantly. The girl laughed, and looked down at her flowers. “I suppose Ferdinand.” “Oh, you know ‘The Tempest!’” said the young man, with some surprise. “I know all Shakespeare’s plays. Do you think I am so very ignorant?” “I think you are very delightful.” “Maurice! I thought English gentlemen did not pay compliments.” “I am the exception that proves the rule,” he replied audaciously. “However, I might have guessed Justinian would have an odd volume of Shakespeare about with him. The Englishman believes in the Bible and Shakespeare, the Englishwoman in the Bible and Burke.” “Who is Burke?” “The man that wrote the ‘English Peerage.’” “What is a peerage?” “You have read Shakespeare, and do not know what a peerage is! Helena, I’m ashamed of you!” “If you talk like that, Maurice, I will certainly not give you this rose.” “Then I won’t talk like that; so give me the rose.” “Not yet; you must win it first.” “Helena! you are as hard-hearted as the Chloe of your song.” “Am I? but if I don’t give pansies”— “Helena!” He made a sudden movement towards her of ill-suppressed eagerness, whereupon she, having betrayed herself more than she wished to do, feigned anger to escape from the declaration which she saw was trembling on his lips. Why she did this, it was hard to say, as she loved Maurice very much, and longed to hear him tell of his passion, yet she nipped his declaration in the bud. Why? Ask a woman to solve the mystery; for it is beyond the power of any man to unravel. “See!” she said playfully; “you have upset all my flowers. Pick them up at once.” The obedient Maurice went down on his knees before this pretty tyrant and began to collect the flowers. The position was worse than the words, so Helena, seeing the danger, hastily began to talk of the first thing that came into her head. “Talking about ‘The Tempest’—who is Andros?” “Ariel for looks, Caliban for wickedness.” “And Crispin?” “Crispin is Gonzalo, the honest old counsellor.” Helena made a pretty grimace, and ordered Maurice back to his chair, which was at a safe distance, and did not admit of any embarrassing endearments. “Miranda was very fond of Ariel, wasn’t she?” “Yes, I suppose so, but she hated Caliban. Do you like Caliban?” “Well, I like Ariel.” “Then what about Ariel-Caliban—Caliphronas?” asked Maurice, vexed at her fencing. “I can’t bear him—and yet,” continued Helena reflectively, with a certain spice of malice, “there is something nice about him.” “You can’t bear him, and yet there is something nice about him!” echoed Maurice bitterly. “I don’t understand you.”