she.

"Why do you speak to me like that?" cries he vehemently. "If you don't
want to dance, why not say so to me? Why not trust me? Good heavens! if
I were your bitterest enemy you could not treat me more distantly. And
yet--I would die to make you happy."

"Don't!" says she in a little choking sort of way, turning her face from
him. She struggles with herself for a moment, and then, still with her
face averted, says meekly: "Thank you, then. If you don't mind, I should
rather not dance any more to-night."

"Why didn't you say that at first?" says he, with a last remnant of
reproach. "No; there shall be no more dancing to-night for either you or
me. A word, Joyce!" turning eagerly toward her, "you won't forget your
promise about that walk to-morrow?"

"No. No, indeed."

"Thank you!"

They are sitting very close together, and almost insensibly his hand
seeks and finds hers. It was lying idle on her lap, and lifting it, he
would have raised it to his lips, but with a sharp, violent action she
wrests it from him, and, as a child might, hides it behind her.

"If you would have me believe in you----No, no, not that," says she, a
little incoherently, her voice rendering her meaning with difficulty.
Dysart, astonished, stands back from her, waiting for something more;
but nothing comes, except two large tears, that steal heavily,
painfully, down her cheeks.

She brushes them impatiently away.

"Forgive me," she says, somewhat brokenly. "To you, who are so good to
me, I am unkind, while to those who are unkind to me I----" She is
trying to rally. "It was a mere whim, believe me. I have always hated
demonstrations of any sort, and why should you want to kiss my hand?"

"I shouldn't," says he. "If----" His eyes have fallen from her eyes to
her lips.

"Never mind," says she; "I didn't understand, perhaps. But why can't you
be content with things as they are?"

"Are you content with them?"

"I think so. I have been examining myself, and honestly I think so,"
says she a little feverishly.

"Well, I'm not," returns he with decision. "You must give me credit for
a great private store of amiability, if you imagine that I am satisfied
to take things as they now exist--between you and me!"

"You have your faults, you see, as well as another," says she with a
frown. "You are persistent! And the worst of it is that you are
generally right." She frowns again, but even while frowning glances
sideways from under her long l