sadly. "You have given me a dangerous
name. But no matter; if it pleases you to-day to think I shall be your
wife, I am glad."

_III.--The Opening of the Gates_

Coquette, who loved the sunshine as a drunkard loves drink, was seated
in the park in Glasgow, reading a book under her sunshade, when Lord
Earlshope walked up to the place where she sat.

"Ah, it is you! I do wish much to see you for a few moments," she said.
"First, I must tell you I have promised to my cousin to be his wife. I
did tell you I should do that; now it is done, and he is glad. And so,
as I am to be his wife, I do not think it is right I should see you any
more."

"Coquette," he said, "have you resolved to make your life miserable?
What have you done?"

"I have done what I ought to do. My cousin is very good; he is very fond
of me; he will break his heart if I do not marry him. And I do like him
very well, too. Perhaps in some years it will be a pleasure to me to be
his wife."

"Coquette," he interrupted, "you do not blame me for being unable to
help you. I am going to tell you why I cannot. Many a time have I
determined to cell you."

"Ah, I know," she said. "You will tell me something you have done. I do
not wish to hear it. I have often seen you about to tell me a secret,
and sometimes I have wondered, too, and wished to know; but then I did
think there was enough trouble in the world without adding to it."

Someone came along the road, came as if to sit on the seat with them--a
woman with a coarse, red face and unsteady black eyes, full of
mischievous amusement.

Lord Earlshope rose and faced the stranger.

"You had better go home," he said to her. "I give you fair warning, you
had better go home."

"Why," said the woman, with a loud laugh. "You have not said as much to
me for six years back! My dear," she added, looking at Coquette, "I am
sorry to have disturbed you; but do you know who I am? I am Lady
Earlshope!"

"Coquette," said Earlshope, "that is my wife."

When the woman had walked away, laughing and kissing her hand in tipsy
fashion, Coquette came a step nearer, and held out her hand.

"I know it all now," she said, "and am very sorry for you. I do now know
the reason of many things, and I cannot be angry when we are going away
from each other. Good-bye. I will hear of you sometimes through Lady
Drum."

"Good-bye, Coquette," he said, "and God bless you for your gentleness,
and your sweetness, and your forgiven