slowly. There were pain and pathos in her voice as she spoke.

"Yes," he replied, "having heard it all, I desire nothing on earth so
much as to win your friendship."

"My mother?" she murmured.

"Yes--your mother's unfortunate marriage, and all that came of it. I can
repeat the story."

"Oh, no!" she interrupted. "I do not wish to hear it. You know it, and
you would still be my friend?"

"Answer me one question," he said, gently. "Is this sad story the
result of any fault of yours? Are you in any way to blame for it?"

"No; not in the least. Still, Lord Arleigh, although I do not share the
fault, I share the disgrace--nothing can avert that from me."

"Nothing of the kind," he opposed; "disgrace and yourself are as
incompatible as pitch and a dove's wing."

"But," she continued, wonderingly, "do you quite understand?"

"Yes; the duchess told me the whole story. I understand it, and am truly
grieved for you; I know the duke's share in it and all."

He saw her face grow pale even to the lips.

"And yet you would be my friend--you whom people call proud--you whose
very name is history! I cannot believe it, Lord Arleigh."

There was a wistful look in her eyes, as though she would fain believe
that it were true, yet that she was compelled to plead even against
herself.

"We cannot account for likes or dislikes," he said; "I always look upon
them as nature's guidance as to whom we should love, and whom we should
avoid. The moment I saw you I--liked you. I went home, and thought about
you all day long."

"Did you?" she asked, wonderingly. "How very strange!"

"It does not seem strange to me," he observed. "Before I had looked at
you three minutes I felt as though I had known you all my life. How long
have we been talking here? Ten minutes, perhaps--yet I feel as though
already there is something that has cut us off from the rest of the
world, and left us alone together. There is no accounting for such
strange feelings as these."

"No," she replied, dreamily, "I do not think there is."

"Perhaps," he continued, "I may have been fanciful all my life; but
years ago, when I was a boy at school, I pictured to myself a heroine
such as I thought I should love when I came to be a man."

She had forgotten her sweet, half sad shyness, and sat with faint flush
on her face, her lips parted, her blue eyes fixed on his.

"A heroine of my own creation," he went on; "and I gave her an ideal
face--lilies and roses blend