ce--he told her that he was engaged to be married.

"I see no probability," he answered drily. "She--her guardian will not
allow an engagement."

"But--she loves you?"

"I do not think so; I am sure indeed that she does not!"

"And you--you care for her?"

"No; by Heaven, I do not!"

"Then by-and-by you will meet somebody whom you love."

"I have met somebody now," said Hubert, in a curiously dogged tone;
"but, as I am sure that she does not care a pin for me, there is no harm
in letting the secret out."

"Who is she?"--in a startled tone.

"She is a singer. She used to be an actress; but she has a magnificent
voice and is in training for the operatic stage. She will be a great
star one day, and I shall worship her from afar. But I have never met
anybody in the world who will ever be to me what that woman might have
been."

"How do you know," said Cynthia, in a scarcely audible voice, "that you
are not so much to her as she is--you say--to you?"

"How do I know? I am certain of it--certain that she regards me as a
useful, pleasant friend who is anxious to do his best for her in the
musical world, and nothing more. If I dreamed for a moment that I was
nearer and dearer to her than that, I should hold my tongue. But, as it
is, knowing that I am not worthy to kiss the hem of her garment, and
that if she knew all my unworthiness she would be the first to bid me
begone, I do not fear--now, once and once only--to tell her that I love
her with all my heart and mind and body and soul, and that I ask nothing
from her but permission to love on until the last day of my life."

"Now, once and once only?" repeated Cynthia.

She looked up and saw that he stood ready for departure. His face was
pale, his lips were tightly set, and his eyes sent forth a strange
defiant gleam which she had never seen before. He made three strides
towards the door before she collected herself sufficiently to start up
and speak.

"No--no--you must not go! One moment! And what if--if"--she could
hardly get out the words--"what if the woman that you loved had loved
you too, ever since you saved her from poverty and disgrace and worse
than death in the London streets?"

She held out her arms to him, as if praying him to save her once again.
He stood motionless, breathing heavily, swaying a little, as if impelled
at one moment to turn away and at another to meet her extended hands.

"Then," he said at last--"then I should be of all men mos