he sneering,
unbelieving man who first came to her father's house a few weeks before,
who took a pleasure in laughing at all that was best and truest. No one
could accuse him of lack of earnestness to-day. He had almost frightened
her by the intensity of his appeal, the passion of his words. And did
she love him? If perfect love casteth out fear, she did not love him.
Nevertheless, no man had ever appealed to her like this man. Others had
asked her for her love, and she had refused them without hesitation; but
Leicester was different. If she refused him, it would be after many
questions, it would be with an aching heart.

And yet she was afraid. She wanted to think, she wanted to examine her
own heart in loneliness and in silence. Yes, and she wanted to speak to
her father. Was this a sign that she did not really love him? It was
difficult to say. Leicester had been spoken of in her hearing as one who
sneered at all things which to her were sacred, and it was out of
harmony with her whole life-thought to link her life with such a man.
But there was another side of the question. He loved her, and the
thought of his love made her heart beat quickly, and filled her with a
strange joy.

These thoughts passed through her mind in a flash. Nay, perhaps she did
not think them at all. They became a kind of consciousness to her, a
series of impressions which possessed her being without mental activity
on her own part. Moreover, Leicester, by a kind of intuition, divined
what was in her mind. For these two natures were closely akin, although
their training, outlook, and conceptions of life were entirely
different. If he were a keen-brained, strong, masterful man, she was in
her degree his equal. She loved strength even as he rejoiced in it.
Although in many respects presenting a strong contrast, Mother Nature
had cast them in a similar mould.

Meanwhile, Leicester was watching her closely. He tried to read her face
as he would read an open book, with what eagerness we need scarcely say.
What had begun in grim and almost repelling jest had resulted in
terrible earnestness. This man loved with all the strength of his
nature.

"I want your answer," he said at length. "And I must only have one
answer. Oh, forgive me if I seem rude, but I cannot help it. I know that
I have not spoken as I ought: that is because I have spoken as I was
compelled. I know how unworthy I am--yes, I am in deadly earnest. I know
I am not worthy to brush