emember," says she going up to him and laying her hand
upon his arm while the blood receding from her face leaves her very
white; "remember should such a thing occur--and it is very likely,"
slowly, "I warn you of that--you are not to consider yourself wronged or
aggrieved in any way."

"Why should you talk to me in this way?" begins he, aggrieved now at all
events.

"You must recollect," feverishly, "that I have made you no promise. Not
one. I refuse even to look upon this matter as a serious thing. I tell
you honestly," her dark eyes gleaming with nervous excitement, "I don't
believe I ever shall so look at it. After all," pausing, "you will do
well if you now put an end to this farce between us; and tell me to take
myself and my dull life out of yours forever."

"I shall never tell you that," in a low tone.

"Well, well," impatiently; "I have warned you. It will not be my fault
if----O! it is foolish of you!" she blurts out suddenly. "I have told
you I don't understand myself: and still you waste yourself--you throw
yourself away. In the end you will be disappointed in me, if not in one
way, then in another. It hurts me to think of that. There is time still;
let us be friends--friends----" Her hands are tightly clasped, she looks
at him with a world of entreaty in her beautiful eyes. "Friends, Felix!"
breathes she softly.

"Let things rest as they are, I beseech you," says he, taking her hand
and holding it in a tight grasp. "The future--who can ever say what that
great void will bring us. I will trust to it; and if only loss and
sorrow be my portion, still----As for friendship, Joyce; whatever
happens I shall be your friend and lover."

"Well--you quite know," says the girl, almost sullenly.

"Quite. And I accept the risk. Do not be angry with me, my beloved." He
lifts the hand he holds and presses it to his lips, wondering always at
the coldness of it. "You are free, Joyce; you desire it so, and I desire
it, too. I would not hamper you in any way."

"I should not be able to endure it, if--afterward--I thought you were
reproaching me," says she, with a little weary smile.

"Be happy about that," says he: "I shall never reproach you." He is
silent for a moment; her last speech has filled him with thoughts that
presently grow into extremely happy ones: unless--unless she liked
him--cared for him, in some decided, if vague manner, would his future
misery be of so much importance to her? Oh! surely not! A smal