I hope Mr. Ovid isn't ill? He looked sadly pale, I thought. Allow me to
give you your hat." Carmina thanked her, and hurried downstairs.

Ovid was waiting at the gate of the Square--and he did indeed look
wretchedly ill.

It was useless to make inquiries; they only seemed to irritate him. "I
am better already, now you have come to me." He said that, and led the
way to a sheltered seat among the trees. In the later evening-time the
Square was almost empty. Two middle-aged ladies, walking up and down
(who considerately remembered their own youth, and kept out of the way),
and a boy rigging a model yacht (who was too closely occupied to notice
them), were the only persons in the enclosure besides themselves.

"Does my mother know that you have come here?" Ovid asked.

"Mrs. Gallilee has gone out. I didn't stop to think of it, when I got
your letter. Am I doing wrong?"

Ovid took her hand. "Is it doing wrong to relieve me of anxieties that I
have no courage to endure? When we meet in the house either my mother or
her obedient servant, Miss Minerva, is sure to interrupt us. At last, my
darling, I have got you to myself! You know that I love you. Why can't I
look into your heart, and see what secrets it is keeping from me? I try
to hope; but I want some little encouragement. Carmina! shall I ever
hear you say that you love me?"

She trembled, and turned away her head. Her own words to the governess
were in her mind; her own conviction of the want of all sympathy between
his mother and herself made her shrink from answering him.

"I understand your silence." With those words he dropped her hand, and
looked at her no more.

It was sadly, not bitterly spoken. She attempted to find excuses; she
showed but too plainly how she pitied him. "If I only had myself to
think of--" Her voice failed her. A new life came into his eyes, the
colour rose in his haggard face: even those few faltering words had
encouraged him!

She tried again to make him understand her. "I am so afraid of
distressing you, Ovid; and I am so anxious not to make mischief between
you and your mother--"

"What has my mother to do with it?"

She went on, without noticing the interruption. "You won't think me
ungrateful? We had better speak of something else. Only this evening,
your mother sent for me, and--don't be angry!--I am afraid she might be
vexed if she knew what you have been saying to me. Perhaps I am wrong?
Perhaps she only thinks I am too yo