ken
fountain, the hush and peace which always lay over this secluded portion
of the neglected garden.

The earth was moist and soft under her feet, the cheeky robin, curious
after the manner of his kind, had followed her and was flying from seat
to seat ahead of her watching her every movement.

"Crystal!"

At first she thought that it was the wind sighing through the trees, so
softly had her name been spoken, so like a sigh did it seem as it
reached her ears.

"Crystal!"

This time she could not be mistaken, someone had called her name,
someone was walking up the avenue rapidly, behind her. She would not
turn round, for she knew who it was that had called and she would not
allow surprise to resuscitate the outward signs of regret. But she stood
quite still while those hasty footsteps drew nearer, and she made a
great and successful effort to keep back the tears which once more
threatened to fill her eyes.

A minute later she felt herself gently drawn to the nearest stone seat,
and she sank down upon it, still trying very hard to remain calm and
above all not to cry.

"Oh! why, why did you come, Maurice?" she said at last, when she felt
that she could look with some semblance of composure on the
half-sitting, half-kneeling figure of the young man beside her. Despite
her obstinate resistance he had taken her hand in his and was covering
it with kisses.

"Why did you come," she reiterated pleadingly, "you must know that it is
no use. . . ."

"I can't believe it. I won't believe it," he protested passionately.
"Crystal, if you really cared you would not send me away from you."

"If I really cared?" she said dully. "Maurice, sometimes I think that if
_you_ really cared you would not make it so difficult for me. Can't you
see," she added more vehemently, "that every time you come you make me
more wretched, and my duty seem more hard? till sometimes I feel as if I
could not bear it any longer--as if in the struggle my poor heart would
suddenly break."

"And because your father is so heartless . . ." he began vehemently.

"My father is not heartless, Maurice," she broke in firmly, "but you
must try and see for yourself how impossible it was for him to give his
consent to our marriage even if he knew that my happiness was bounded by
your love. . . . Just think it over quietly--if you had a sister who was
all the world to you, would _you_ consent to such a marriage? . . ."

"With a penniless, out-at-elbows, goo