before she had time to know her own astonishment.

"You did kiss mine, you know," he smiled, leaning his arm, too, on the
mantel-shelf and looking at her with gaily supplicating eyes. "Don't be
angry."

The shroud had dropped: the past was gone: she was once more in the
present of oppressive, of painful joy.

She would have liked to move away and take her chair at some distance;
but that would have looked like flight; foolish indeed. She summoned her
common-sense, her maturity, her sorrow, to smile back, to say in a voice
she strove to make merely light: "Unusual circumstances excused me."

"Unusual circumstances?"

"You had been very kind. I was very grateful."

Sir Hugh for a moment was silent, looking at her with his intent,
interrogatory gaze. "You are always kind to me," he then said. "I am
always grateful. So may I always kiss your hand?"

Her eyes fell before his. "If you wish to," she answered gravely.

"You frighten me a little, do you know," said Sir Hugh. "Please don't
frighten me.--Are you really angry?--_I_ don't frighten you?"

"You bewilder me a little," Amabel murmured. She looked into the fire,
near tears, indeed, in her bewilderment; and Sir Hugh looked at her,
looked hard and carefully, at her noble figure, her white hands, the
gold and white of her leaning head. He looked, as if measuring the
degree of his own good fortune.

"You are so lovely," he then said quietly.

She blushed like a girl.

"You are the most beautiful woman I know," said Sir Hugh. "There is no
one like you," He put his hand out to hers, and, helplessly, she yielded
it. "Amabel, do you know, I have fallen in love with you."

She stood looking at him, stupefied; her eyes ecstatic and appalled.

"Do I displease you?" asked Sir Hugh.

She did not answer.

"Do I please you?" Still she gazed at him, speechless.

"Do you care at all for me?" he asked, and, though grave, he smiled a
little at her in asking the question. How could he not know that, for
years, she had cared for him more than for anything, anyone?

And when he asked her this last question, the oppression was too great.
She drew her hand from his, and laid her arms upon the mantel-shelf and
hid her face upon them. It was a helpless confession. It was a helpless
appeal.

But the appeal was not understood, or was disregarded. In a moment her
husband's arms were about her.

This was new. This was not like their courtship.--Yet, it reminded
her,--of what