Swiss Mountains,
beside the Italian lakes, in gay Paris, and every where Katie moved by
his side, and gave new life to the familiar scenes.

"Give me my answer to-day," he cried; "for to-day my treasure, you are
sure of yourself, to-day you know that you love me."

Katie's face changed, as the sky changes when a rift of blue that
promised a smiling day is swallowed up again in the midst of uncertain
weather; whatever softness lingered was veiled by doubt. "I don't know,"
she said hesitatingly, "I'm not sure yet. I can't tell. Must you have
your answer to-day?" And she looked at him half defiantly. An expression
of bitter disappointment swept over Bulchester's face and seemed
actually to affect his whole personality, for he appeared to shrink into
himself until there was less of him. "You see," Katie went on, "between
you I am driven, I am tossed; I don't even know what I feel. How can I?
Poor Stephen, you know, has loved me all my life, and one does not
easily forget that, Lord Bulchester. He does have a claim, you know."

"Only your preference has any claim," he answered in a voice of
entreaty.

"Yes," she said, and sighed. The assent and the sigh completely puzzled
him. Were they for himself, or for Stephen Archdale? Had she already
chosen without being willing to speak, or was she still hesitating? In
either case, the decision was equally momentous, the only question was
of lengthening or shortening the suspense of waiting for it.

"Then take your time," he answered drearily, "and I will leave you, I
will go and hide my impatience. You must not be tortured."

"No," returned the girl with a low sigh. At that instant she turned her
face away from him toward the window, a knock at the door being the
ostensible reason. But if anyone had seen the smile with which she
received the assurance that she was not to be tortured, he would have
believed that there was no imminent danger of it. Had it been a question
of torturing,--that was another thing. When she turned a grave face
toward Lord Bulchester again he had risen. "No, No," she cried. "Don't
go, sit down, I would rather have you here, for a time at least. It's
Elizabeth,--Mistress Royal." Her tones threw the listener from
dreariness into despair. A moment since he thought he had her assurance
that his own claims were seriously considered. And, now, what could give
her manner this nervousness, but the fact that her attachment to
Archdale was still in force? For Bul