have seen more of
you--might have had some opportunity of--of letting you realise how
deeply I admired and respected you--some opportunity of showing myself
as I really am to you--before--before----' he paused, and looked hard at
me.

I did not know what to say. I really liked him so much; and when he
spoke in that voice, I could not bear to seem cruel to him. Indeed, I
was aware at the moment how much I had grown to care for him in those
six short days. But I knew it was impossible. 'Don't say it, Mr.
Tillington,' I murmured, turning my face away. 'The less said, the
sooner mended.'

'But I must,' he cried. 'I must tell you now, if I am to have no chance
afterwards. I wanted you to see more of me before I ventured to ask you
if you could ever love me, if you could ever suffer me to go through
life with you, to share my all with you.' He seized my trembling hand.
'Lois,' he cried, in a pleading voice, 'I _must_ ask you; I can't expect
you to answer me now, but _do_ say you will give me at least some other
chance of seeing you, and then, in time, of pressing my suit upon you.'

Tears stood in my eyes. He was so earnest, so charming. But I remembered
Lady Georgina, and his prospective half-million. I moved his hand away
gently. 'I cannot,' I said. 'I cannot-- I am a penniless girl--an
adventuress. Your family, your uncle, would never forgive you if you
married me. I will not stand in your way. I-- I like you very much,
though I have seen so little of you. But I feel it is impossible--and I
am going to-morrow.'

[Illustration: I ROSE OF A SUDDEN, AND RAN DOWN THE HILL.]

Then I rose of a sudden, and ran down the hill with all my might, lest I
should break my resolve, never stopping once till I reached my own
bedroom.

An hour later, Lady Georgina burst in upon me in high dudgeon. 'Why,
Lois, my child,' she cried. 'What's this? What on earth does it mean?
Harold tells me he has proposed to you--proposed to you--and you've
rejected him!'

I dried my eyes and tried to look steadily at her. 'Yes, Lady Georgina,'
I faltered. 'You need not be afraid. I have refused him; and I mean it.'

She looked at me, all aghast. '_And_ you mean it!' she repeated. 'You
mean to refuse him. Then, all I can say is, Lois Cayley, I call it pure
cheek of you!'

'What?' I cried, drawing back.

'Yes, cheek,' she answered, volubly. 'Forty thousand a year, and a
good old family! Harold Tillington is my nephew; he's an earl's
grandson; he