ung. Oh, Ovid, how you look at me!
Your mother hasn't said in so many words--"

"What has she said?"

In that question she saw the chance of speaking to him of other
interests than the interests of love.

"You must go away to another climate," she said; "and your mother tells
me I must persuade you to do it. I obey her with a heavy heart. Dear
Ovid, you know how I shall miss you; you know what a loss it will be to
me, when you say good-bye--but there is only one way to get well again.
I entreat you to take that way! Your mother thinks I have some influence
over you. Have I any influence?"

"Judge for yourself," he answered. "You wish me to leave you?"

"For your own sake. Only for your own sake."

"Do you wish me to come back again?"

"It's cruel to ask the question!"

"It rests with you, Carmina. Send me away when you like, and where you
like. But, before I go, give me my one reason for making the sacrifice.
No change will do anything for me, no climate will restore my
health--unless you give me your love. I am old enough to know myself; I
have thought of it by day and by night. Am I cruel to press you in this
way? I will only say one word more. It doesn't matter what becomes of
me--if you refuse to be my wife."

Without experience, without advice--with her own heart protesting
against her silence--the restraint that she had laid on herself grew
harder and harder to endure. The tears rose in her eyes. He saw them;
they embittered his mind against his mother. With a darkening face he
rose, and walked up and down before her, struggling with himself.

"This is my mother's doing," he said.

His tone terrified her. The dread, present to her mind all through the
interview, of making herself a cause of estrangement between mother and
son, so completely overcame her that she even made an attempt to defend
Mrs. Gallilee! At the first words, he sat down by her again. For a
moment, he scrutinised her face without mercy--and then repented of his
own severity.

"My poor child," he said, "you are afraid to tell me what has happened.
I won't press you to speak against your own inclinations. It would be
cruel and needless--I have got at the truth at last. In the one hope of
my life, my mother is my enemy. She is bent on separating us; she shall
not succeed. I won't leave you."

Carmina looked at him. His eyes dropped before her, in confusion and
shame.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked.

No reproaches could have