ned with him, and neither spoke.

They left the bridge, and passed through the wooden gate at the
Battersea end of it, and across the corner where the stone columns
lie, like an imitation of Tadmor in the Desert, and so to the broad
terrace overlooking the river.

There is not, anywhere, a more beautiful terrace than this of
Battersea Park, especially when the tide is high. Before it lies the
splendid river, with the barges which Arnold had seen from the bridge.
They are broad, and flat, and sometimes squat, and sometimes black
with coal, and sometimes they go up and down sideways, in lubberly
Dutch fashion, but they are always picturesque; and beyond the river
is the Embankment, with its young trees, which will before many years
be tall and stately trees; and behind the trees are the new red
palaces; and above the houses, at this time of the year and day, are
the flying clouds, already colored with the light of the sinking sun.
Behind the terrace are the trees, and lawns of the best-kept park in
London.

In the afternoon of a late September day, there are not many who walk
in these gardens. Arnold and Iris had the terrace almost to
themselves, save for half-a-dozen girls with children, and two or
three old men making the most of the last summer they were ever likely
to see, though it would have been cruel to tell them so.

"This is your favorite walk, Iris," said Arnold at last, breaking the
silence.

"Yes; I come here very often. It is my garden. Sometimes in the
winter, and when the east wind blows up the river, I have it all to
myself."

"A quiet life, Iris," he said, "and a happy life."

"Yes; a happy life."

"Iris, will you change it for a life which will not be so quiet?" He
took her hand, but she made no reply. "I must tell you, Iris, because
I cannot keep it from you any longer. I love you--oh, my dear, I
cannot tell you how I love you."

"Oh, Arnold!" she whispered. It had come, the thing she feared to
hear!

"May I go on? I have told you now the most important thing, and the
rest matters little. Oh, Iris, may I go on and tell you all?"

"Go on," she said; "tell me all."

"As for telling you everything," He said with a little laugh, "that is
no new thing. I have told you all that is in my mind for a year and
more. It seems natural that I should tell you this too, even if it did
not concern you at all, but some other girl; though that would be
impossible. I love you, Iris; I love you--I should