ness.

"Ralph," she answered, and dropped her head.

"True--he did it for the best," repeated Willy, and relapsed into
silence.

"Besides, I had no home then, you know."

How steadfastly the girl's eyes were fixed oh the distant south!

"You had your father's home, Rotha."

"Ah, no! When it ceased to be poor father's home, how could it be mine
any longer? No, I was homeless."

There was another pause.

"Then let me ask you to make this house your home forever. Can you not
do so?"

"I think so--I can scarcely tell--he said it might be best--"

Willy let loose her hand. Had he dreamed? Was it a wild
hallucination--the bright gleam of happiness that had penetrated the
darkness that lay about him at every step?

How yearningly the girl's eyes still inclined to yonder distant south.

"Let us say no more about it now, Rotha," he said huskily. "If you
wish it, we'll talk again on this matter--that is, I say, if you
_wish_ it; if not, no matter."

The young man was turning away. Without moving the fixed determination
of her gaze, Rotha said quietly,--

"Willy, I think perhaps I _do_ love you--perhaps--I don't know. I
remember he said that our hearts lay open before each other--"

"Who said so, Rotha?"

There was another start of recovering consciousness. Then the wide
eyes looked full into his, and the tongue that would have spoken
refused that instant to speak. The name that trembled in a
half-articulate whisper on the parted lips came upwards from the
heart.

But the girl was ignorant of her own secret even yet.

"We'll say no more about it now, Rotha," repeated Willy in a broken
voice. "If you wish it, we'll talk again; give me a sign, and perhaps
we'll talk on this matter again."

In another moment the young man was gone.

CHAPTER XIX. THE BETROTHAL.
It was not till she was alone that the girl realized the situation.
She put her hand over her eyes--the hand that still tingled with the
light pressure of his touch.

What had happened? Had Willy asked her to become his wife? And had she
seemed to say No?

The sound of his voice was still lingering on her ears; it was a low
broken murmur, such as might have fallen to a sob.

Had she, then, refused? That could not be. She was but a poor homeless
girl, with nothing to recommend her to such a man as he was. Yet she
knew--she had heard--that he loved her, and would one day ask her to
be his wife. She had thought that day was far distant. She ha