to tears, not into noisy sobs,
but into a nearly silent passion of grief which went to the very heart
of the man who stood at her side. She drew her hand away from his and
laid it upon the mantelpiece, which she crept to and leaned against,
sobbing miserably meanwhile, as if she needed the support that solid
stone could give.

Her slender figure, in its closely-fitting white gown, shook from head
to foot. It was as much as Hubert could do to restrain himself from
putting his arm round it, drawing it closely to him, and silencing the
sobs with kisses. But his feeling was that of a grown-up person to a
child whom he wanted to comfort and protect, not that of a man to the
woman whom he loved. He waited therefore silently, with a fixed look of
mingled pain and determination upon his face, until she had grown a
little calmer. When at last her figure ceased to vibrate with sobs, he
came closer and put his hand caressingly upon her shoulder.

"Enid," he said, "I have asked you before if I could make you happier;
you never answered the question. Will you tell me now?"

She raised herself from her drooping attitude, and stood with averted
face; but still she did not speak.

"Perhaps you hardly know what I mean. I am willing--anxious--to give my
whole life to you, Enid, my child. If you can trust yourself to my
hands, I will take such care of you that you shall never know trouble or
sorrow again, if care can avert it. Give me the right to do this for
you, dear. You shall not have cause to repent your trust. Look at me,
Enid, and tell me that you trust me."

Why that insistence on the word "trust"? Was it--strange
contradiction--because he felt himself so utterly unworthy of her
confidence? He said not a word of love.

Enid looked round at him at last. Her gentle face was pale, her lashes
were wet with tears, but the traces of emotion were not unbecoming to
her. Even to Hubert's cold eyes, cold and critical in spite of himself,
she was lovelier than ever.

"I want to trust you--I do trust you," she said; but there were trouble
and perplexity in her voice. "I don't know what to do. You would not let
me be deceived, Hubert? You would not let dear uncle be tricked and
cheated into thinking--thinking--by Flossy, I mean---- Oh, I can't tell
you! If you knew what I know, you would understand."

Hubert had never been in greater danger of betraying his own secret.
Knowing of no other, his first instinctive thought was that Enid h