s you to know it. I do pity you."

"Pity is akin to love. You will love me next."

"I don't see the smallest prospect; you mustn't delude yourself."

"I do, I will. I will trust you. I know your heart. You will pity me and
then you will love me. I am not a good fellow."

His words and looks were the soul of sincerity now. He took her hand.

"I have never been a really good man. I have not been a dutiful son, and
I have made my mother unhappy. If you were my wife I think I should
become good, for you, Beatrice, you are very good."

He was telling her the old, old story, and she was half believing him,
half believing that it might be in her power to redeem him. Beatrice
Meadowsweet was just the sort of woman to love such work, to glory in
such martyrdom.

She did not withdraw her hand from his, and her gray eyes, already dark
and misty with emotion, filled with tears.

"I have never been spoken to like this before," she said.

Here she rose and stood before him.

"Your words trouble me. It is not right for a girl to marry without
love, and yet most surely I pity you."

"Carry your pity a little further, and believe that the love will come.
You cannot receive all and give nothing in return--the love will come,
Beatrice, believe me, do believe me."

"I am not of your rank," she said, going back to her old objection,
which in itself was a sign of weakness.

"See what my mother says of your rank and of you. You can take any rank.
Oh, Beatrice, how happy you will make my mother."

She was not moved at all by this.

"And Catherine, I can see her eyes sparkle."

At Catherine's name Beatrice clasped her hands before her, and began to
pace slowly up and down the little enclosure which contained the wide
French windows opening into the garden.

"And you will make me good, Beatrice."

Captain Bertram was astute enough to see that he played his best card
here.

Half an hour later he left her. She had apparently consented to
nothing--but she had agreed to see him again the following day.

CHAPTER XXI.

WITH CATHERINE IN THE ROSE BOWER.

Mrs. Meadowsweet was not the least like Mrs. Bell. She was not
constantly on the watch for lovers for her only daughter. She was
naturally such a contented and easy-going woman that she never troubled
herself to look far ahead. The time being was always more or less
sufficient to her. No two people could be snugger or more absolutely
comfortable together than she and