began to seek her out again. He thought her a
little cold, and fancied that a blind man could find no favour in her
eyes. It was Angela--that universal peacemaker--who at last set matters
straight between the two.

"Kitty," she said, one day when Kitty was calling upon her, "why are you
so distant and unfriendly to my brother?"

"I did not mean to be," said Kitty, with rising colour.

"But, indeed, you are. And he thinks--he thinks--that he has offended
you."

"Oh, no! How could he!" ejaculated Kitty. Whereat Angela smiled. "You
must tell him not to think any such thing, Angela, please."

"You must tell him yourself. He might not believe me," said Angela.

Kitty was very simple in some things still. She took Angela's advice
literally.

"Shall I tell him now--to-day?" she said, seriously.

"Yes, now, to-day," said Angela. "You will find him in the library."

"But he will think it so strange if I go to him there."

"Not at all. I would not send you to him if I did not know what he would
feel. Kitty, he is not happy. Can you not make him a little happier?"

And then Angela, who had meanwhile led her guest to the library door,
opened it and made her enter, almost against her will. She stood for a
moment inside the door, doubting whether to go or stay. Then she looked
at Rupert, and decided that she would stay.

He was alone. He was leaning his head on one hand in an attitude of
listlessness, which showed that he was out of spirits.

"Is that you, Angela?" he said.

"No," said Kitty, softly. "It's not Angela: it's me."

She was very ungrammatical, but her tone was sweet, and Rupert smiled.
His face looked as if the sunshine had fallen on it.

"Me, is it?" he said, half-rising. Then, more gravely--"I am very glad
to see you--no, not to see you: that's not it, is it?--to have you
here."

"Are you?" said Kitty.

There were tears in her voice.

"Am I not?" He was holding her hand now, and she did not draw it away
even when he raised it, somewhat hesitatingly, to his lips. He went on
in a very low voice:--"It would make the happiness of my life to have
you always with me. But I must not hope for that."

"Why not?" said Kitty, giving him both hands instead of one; "when it
would make mine, too."

And after that there was no more to be said.

"Tell me," she whispered, a little later, "am I at all now like the
little girl in Gower-street that you used to know?"

"Not a bit," he answered, kissing her. "Yo