so! Tell me my fears are wrong! Assure me I have not
lost you--no, no, I won't even ask you. 'Tis not possible. I won't
believe it of you--that you could be inconstant! Forgive me,
dear--your strange manner has so upset me--but forgive me, I beg, and
let me take you in my arms." He had risen to approach her.

"No, no! Don't. Don't touch me!" she cried, rising in turn, for
resistance. She kept her mind fixed upon the expected rewards of her
project, and so fortified herself against yielding.

"By heaven, I'll know what this means!" he cried. He looked wildly
about the room, as if the explanation might somewhere there be found.
Her own glance went with his, as if there might indeed be some
evidence, which she must either make shift to conceal, or invent an
innocent reason for its presence. Her eye rested an instant upon a
book that lay on the table. Philip noted this, picked up the book,
turned the cover, and read the name on the first leaf.

"'Charles Falconer.' Who is he?"

[Illustration: "'HE IS A--AN ACQUAINTANCE.'"]

"No matter," she said quickly, and made to snatch the book away. "He
is a--an acquaintance. He is quartered in the house, in fact--a
British officer."

"An acquaintance? But why do you turn red? Why look so confused? Why
try to take the book away from me? Oh, my God, it is true! it is
true!" He dropped the volume, sank back upon a chair, and regarded her
with indescribable grief.

"Why," she blundered, "a gentleman may lend a lady a novel--"

"Oh, the lending is nothing! 'Twas your look and action when I read
his name. 'Tis your look now, your look of guilt. Oh, to see that
flush of discovered shame on _your_ face! You care for this man, I can
see that!"

"Well, what if I do?"

"Then you confess it? Oh, can it be you that say this?--you that stand
there with eyes that drop before mine for shame--nay, eyes that you
raise with defiance! Brazen--oh, my God, my God, tell me 'tis all a
mistake! Tell me I wrong you, dear; that you are still mine, my
Margaret, my Madge--little Madge, that found me a home that day I came
to New York; my pretty Madge, that cried when I was going to leave on
Ned's account; that I loved the first moment I saw her, and--always--"

He broke down at this, and leaned forward upon the table, covering his
face with his hands. When he next looked up, with haggard countenance,
he saw her lips twitching and tears in her eyes.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a flash of hope, and ha