take care," she cried. "Do not come, Felix. Do not come. My father
will never forgive you!" Woman-like she repented, when it was too late.
But he did not listen, he came on, and when his hand was stretched out
to grasp the sill, all her fear was lest he should fall. She seized his
wrist, and helped him in. Then she drew back. "You should not have done
it, Felix," she said, drawing back from him with reproof in her eyes.

"But I wanted to see you so much," he urged, "and the glimpse I had of
you this morning was nothing."

"Well, you may come to the stove and warm yourself--a moment. Oh! how
cold your hands are, my poor boy! But you must not stay. Indeed you must
not!" And she cast terrified glances at the door.

But stolen moments are sweet and apt to be long drawn out. She had a
great deal to say, and he had a great deal it seemed to ask--so much to
ask indeed, that gradually a dim sense that he was asking about other
things than herself--about her father and the ways of the house, and
what guests they had, came over her.

It chilled her. She drew away from him, and said, suddenly, "Oh, Felix!"
and looked at him.

Nothing more. But he understood her and coloured; and tried to ask, but
asked awkwardly, "What is the matter?"

"I know of what you are thinking," she said with grave sorrow. "And it
is base of you, it is cruel! You would use even me whom you love--to
ruin my friends!"

"Hush!" he answered, letting his gloomy passion have vent for the
moment, "they are not your friends, Madeline. See what they have done
for me. It is they, or the troubles they have set on foot, that have
killed my father!" And he swore--carried away by his mistaken
resentment--never again to spare a Huguenot save her father and one
other.

She trembled and tried to close her ears. Her father had told her a
hundred times that she could not be happy with a husband divided from
her by a gulf so wide. She had said to him that it was too late. She had
given Felix her heart and she was a woman. She could not take it back,
though she knew that nothing but unhappiness could come of the match.

"God forgive you!" she cried in that moment of strained insight; and
sank in her chair as though she would weep.

He fell on his knees beside her with words of endearment; for he had
conquered himself again. And she let him soothe her, and would gladly
have believed him. She had never loved him more than now, when she knew
the price she must pay fo