The words came slowly and clear as cut steel. Calm as he was, Darnley's tones vibrated with passion. He drew the girl towards him, and laid his hands on her shoulders so that he could look down into the fathomless lake of her blue eyes. Strange as it was, Mary Dashwood did not resent that which would have been insolent familiarity in anybody else. There was something so strong and dominating about this man; she thrilled with a strange tenderness and pride in the knowledge that he loved her. True, on his own confession, he was penniless, but then he treated the loss of his money in a way that only a strong man could assume. "I love you, dear," he said, very gently and tenderly. "I love you, Mary, and no words could say more. I shall live to see the ice and pride melt from your heart, I shall live to see the beautiful womanhood within you blossom like a rose. The day will come when you will be prouder far to own a good man's heart than you will be to call yourself a Dashwood. You may frown, but I feel certain that my words will come true. And, meanwhile, I am afraid that there is no hope at all for me, my dear." "It is impossible," Mary said coldly. Yet her voice trembled and tears came to her eyes. "Oh, I know that you are a good man and true, but you must make allowances for me. And besides, love is only a name to me. I owe my life to you, and believe me, I am too grateful for words. And if the time should ever come--oh, how selfish I am. Look at your arm. It is bruised and bleeding. It must have happened when you lifted me from the saddle. You must come up to the house and have it attended to at once." "I don't think--" Darnley hesitated; "yes I will. It's really nothing. Let me catch your horse for you and we will walk across the path together." CHAPTER II. DASHWOOD HALL There were the lodge-gates at last, with the arms of the Dashwoods carved in mossy stone, and the great iron gates from the cunning hand of Quentin Matsys himself. Beyond, the noble elms planted in the days of Elizabeth led to the house, a great Tudor mansion with gabled and latticed windows covered with ivy to the quaintly carved roof-tree. The gardens spread wide on either side; there was a thick hedge of crimson roses bounding the park, and in its purple shade the dappled deer reposed. Ralph Darnley drew a great breath as he took in the splendid beauty and serenity of it all. For three hundred years the reign of the Dashwoods had lasted, and not a stain had shown itself on the family escutcheon all that time. Darnley could excuse all Mary's pride. "It is exquisitely beautiful," he said, with a queer catch in his voice. "How vividly it recalls Tennyson's line--'a haunt of ancient peace.' I am trying to make due allowances for your feelings, Miss Dashwood. If I had been brought up here, my views might be the same as yours. I love old houses."