d! what is this? You
are weeping?"

"Do not stay me now,--do not speak to me," answered Violante, through
her stifling sobs, as she broke from his hand and made towards the
house.

"Have you a grief, and under the shelter of my father's roof,--a grief
that you will not tell to me? Cruel!" cried Harley, with inexpressible
tenderness of reproach in his soft tones.

Violante could not trust herself to reply. Ashamed of her self-betrayal,
softened yet more by his pleading voice, she could have prayed to the
earth to swallow her. At length, checking her tears by an heroic effort,
she said, almost calmly, "Noble friend, forgive me. I have no grief,
believe me, which--which I can tell to you. I was but thinking of my
poor father when you came up; alarming myself about him, it may be, with
vain, superstitious fears; and so--even a slight surprise--your abrupt
appearance has sufficed to make me thus weak and foolish; but I wish to
see my father!--to go home--home!"

"Your father is well, believe me, and pleased that you are here. No
danger threatens him; and you, here, are safe."

"I safe--and from what?"

Harley mused irresolute. He inclined to confide to her the danger which
her father had concealed; but had he the right to do so against her
father's will?

"Give me," he said, "time to reflect, and to obtain permission to
intrust you with a secret which, in my judgment, you should know.
Meanwhile, this much I may say, that rather than you should incur the
danger that I believe he exaggerates, your father would have given you a
protector--even in Randal Leslie."

Violante started.

"But," resumed Harley, with a calm, in which a certain deep mournfulness
was apparent, unconsciously to himself, "but I trust you are reserved
for a fairer fate, and a nobler spouse. I have vowed to live henceforth
in the common workday world. But for you, bright child, for you, I am a
dreamer still!"

Violante turned her eyes for one instant towards the melancholy speaker.
The look thrilled to his heart. He bowed his face involuntarily. When he
looked up, she had left his side. He did not this time attempt to follow
her, but moved away and plunged amidst the leafless trees.

An hour afterwards he re-entered the house, and again sought to see
Helen. She had now recovered sufficiently to give him the interview he
requested.

He approached her with a grave and serious gentleness. "My dear Helen,"
said he, "you have consented to be my w