ially, "one can see the person one is
conversing with so much better at a little distance. Don't you agree
with me?"

"Don't I always agree with you?" says Mr. Gower, gloomily.

"Well, then, don't look so discontented, it makes me think you are only
answering me as you think I want to be answered, and no woman could
stand that."

Silence. The short day is already coming to a close. A bitter wind has
sprung from the East and is now flitting with icy ardor over the grass
and streamlet; through the bare branches of the trees, too, it flies,
creating music of a mournful kind as it rushes onward.

"Last night I dreamt of you," says Stephen, at last.

"And what of me?" asks she, bending slightly down over him, as he lies
at her feet in his favorite position.

"This one great thing: I dreamt that you loved me. I flattered myself in
my dreams, did I not?" says Gower, with an affectation of unconcern that
does not disguise the fear that is consuming him lest some day he shall
prove his dream untrue.

"Now what is love, I will thee tell,
It is the fountain and the well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell,"

quotes she, gaily, with a quick, trembling blush.

"I expect some fellows do all the repentance," says Stephen, moodily.
Then, with a sudden accession of animation born of despair, he says,
"Dulce, once for all, tell me if you can care for me even a little." He
has taken her hand--of course her right hand on which a ring is--and is
clasping it in the most energetic manner. The ring has a sharp diamond
in it, and consequently the pressure creates pain. She bears it,
however, like a Cranmer.

"I don't think even my angelic temper would stand a cross-examination on
such a day as this," she says, with a slight frown; it might be slighter
but for the diamond. "Besides, I have made answer to that question a
thousand times. Did I not, indeed, answer it in the most satisfactory
manner of all when I promised to marry you?"

"Yes, you promised to marry me, I know that, but when?" asks he,
quickly. "Up to this you have always declined to name any particular
date."

"Naturally," says Miss Blount, calmly. "I'm not even dreaming of being
married yet, why should I? I should hate it."

"Oh! if you would hate it," says Stephen, stiffly.

"Yes, hate it," repeats she, undauntedly. "Why, indeed, should we be
married for years? I am quite happy, aren't you?"

No answer. Then, very severely, "Aren