portunity to speak it. "What do
you think?" he said to Yanna, as soon as they were together. "Cousin
Alida sent for me on Saturday, and when I answered her note, she
entreated me to be her guest during this winter. She told me she
expected you to-day, and that a gentleman in the house was necessary
for comfort and safety--and respectability. She pretended to be afraid
of burglars and servants, and made out such a hard condition for
herself and you that I finally consented to accept her invitation. But
I am afraid I have done a very foolish thing."

"Indeed, you have not, Antony. You are looking pale and ill; certainly
you want some one to care for you. What is the matter, dear brother?"

"Nothing."

"Do you mean Rose Filmer, when you say 'nothing'?"

"Far from it. Rose is everything."

"You love Rose so much? Tell me about it, Antony. It will do you
good."

"I love Rose so much, Yanna, that I only live to love her."

"Well, then, you will soon meet her often, and under very favorable
conditions. She will be sure to visit me, and in the quiet of Cousin
Alida's house you may influence her when you could not do so in a
crowd."

"I have thought of that. And, oh, Yanna! you must help me to keep my
Rose sweet and pure. She has so many temptations; she is so weak, and
you are so strong. Surely you will help me to help Rose!"

"With all my heart. Miss Alida told me----"

"Do not mind what you are told--the dear girl is in danger, and I love
her all the more. Oh, Yanna, the love has got into my soul, and
whatever Rose is, or whatever she does, cannot affect it. Deep down,
below all the folly and cruelty she is sometimes guilty of, she loves
me. Do I mind, then, the accidentals of her position? Not at all. Her
heart is mine. Some day she will find that out. I am not to be
discouraged by pouts or tempers--no, nor yet by graver faults."

And Yanna felt at once that there was no reasoning with a love like
this. Also, it had her most living sympathy. Just in this unreasonable
way, she would fain have been loved herself. She looked with
admiration on the man capable of it. As he talked of Rose, of her
beauty, her sweetness, her facile temper responding to every breath of
opinion, to every whim and wish, he talked with an astonishing
eloquence; for the highest poetry is struck from the eternal strings
of the human heart, and every word Antony said came thrilling from
them. It was evident that he had learned this eloquence