hing more to her than
a mere acquaintance. It was scarcely possible that he should speak as he
several times had of late if he did not wish to draw her towards him.

That was the hopeful side of her thoughts. It was easy to forget for a
time those words of his which one might think were spoken as distinct
warning; but they crept into the memory, unwelcome, importunate, as soon
as imagination had built its palace of joy. Why did he always recur to
the subject of money? 'I shall allow nothing to come in my way;' he once
said that as if meaning, 'certainly not a love affair with a girl who
is penniless.' He emphasised the word 'friend,' as if to explain that he
offered and asked nothing more than friendship.

But it only meant that he would not be in haste to declare himself. Of
a certainty there was conflict between his ambition and his love, but
she recognised her power over him and exulted in it. She had observed
his hesitancy this evening, before he rose to accompany her from
the house; her heart laughed within her as the desire drew him. And
henceforth such meetings would be frequent, with each one her influence
would increase. How kindly fate had dealt with her in bringing Maud and
Dora to London!

It was within his reach to marry a woman who would bring him wealth.
He had that in mind; she understood it too well. But not one moment's
advantage would she relinquish. He must choose her in her poverty, and
be content with what his talents could earn for him. Her love gave her
the right to demand this sacrifice; let him ask for her love, and the
sacrifice would no longer seem one, so passionately would she reward
him.

He would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence, partly, no
doubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He had said at parting
that her character was so well suited to his; that he liked her. And
then he had pressed her hand so warmly. Before long he would ask her
love.

The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valley
of the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine might at any
moment strike into its musty gloom.

CHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE

The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's
seeming age; at thirty-three he would generally have been taken for
forty. His bearing, his personal habits, were no longer those of a
young man; he walked with a stoop and pressed noticeably on the stick
he carried; it was rare for him to s