wo gentlemen came in and took them. One was Mr. Philip
Vansittart. At sight of him the crimson blood rushed to Virginia's
cheeks, then ebbed away, leaving her deathly pale. For a moment she
thought she must swoon or die from the intensity of her feelings. Philip
was scarcely less moved, though, being a man, he was better able to
control his agitation. When he had time to look more narrowly at
Virginia, he saw a mighty change in her. His heart smote him; and
yet--had he not suffered? Great heaven! had his been a bed of roses? Had
he not agonised after her?

Dinner over, the party went off into the garden. A mutual unspoken
desire made Vansittart and Virginia steal off together to a secluded
spot. Twilight was creeping on--the last glow of a rosy sunset was
fading away; the strains of a delicious waltz were borne towards them.
Vansittart felt his passion mastering him. He made a herculean effort
over himself. He would speak. He would tell her the truth. After that
she would forget him. They were sitting under a tree that screened them
off from the rest of the garden. He could see well enough that she was
trembling with nervousness; that delight, fear, expectation were blended
in the beautiful eyes she turned towards him; and, lest suddenly he
should yield to that mad longing to catch her to his heart, he began to
speak hurriedly--abruptly.

But Virginia scarcely hears him. Her lips are burning to ask him that
one question, and, not heeding what he is saying, she turns and in a
tremulous voice that vibrates to his very soul, she says:

"Why have you kept away from us all this time?"

Why? And Vansittart catches his breath. Then the gyves of his strong
will give way as the withes fell from Samson.

"I will tell you," he says. "I love you so horribly, that it is pain
and anguish to me to be with you, for then I feel that when I leave you
I am ready to die of longing and misery."

"Well?" she utters in a very low voice, bending her eyes on the ground.
It is only one little word, but it speaks such volumes! "Why should you
leave me?" it says. "Is it not my case, too? What need you more than
speak!"

"You have heard," he goes on, not daring to look at her, "that I have
forsworn marriage. Marriage," passionately, "kills love, and I would
rather, ten times over, suffer what I have suffered--and God knows that
is not a little!--than a day should come when, having known such divine
happiness as I _should_ know were you mine