ticed
too, that she had rarely, if ever, raised her eyes to his face until
that blush had passed away, lest they should tell their own secret. And
one day he said to her:

"Why do you never give me a frank, open look, Lady Marion--such as you
gave me always when I knew you first? now you turn your face away, and
your eyes droop. Have I displeased you?"

"No," she replied, gently; "it is not that; you could not displease me."

"Then you are keeping some secret from me," he said, and she smiled a
slow, sweet, half-sad smile that stirred his heart with curious power.

"I have no secret," she said; "or if I have it matters little to any one
but myself."

"Tell me your secret, Lady Marion," he said, with a sigh.

"I will answer you in the words of my favorite poet," she said; "listen,
Lord Chandos."

They were standing under the shade of a clustering vine, the wind that
kissed both fair young faces was full of perfume, the flowers that
bloomed around them were full of sweetest odors, the whisper of the
odorous wind was no sweeter than the voice in which she quoted the
words:

"'Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess;
If there's not too much wind or too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or--you may guess.'"

"What beautiful words," he cried. "It seems to me, Lady Marion, that you
have a whole storehouse full of the most apt and beautiful quotations.
You ought to have been a poet yourself."

"No," she replied, "I can appreciate, but I cannot invent. I can make
the words and the thoughts of a poet my own, but I cannot invent or
create; I have no originality."

"You have what is rarer, still," he cried; "a graceful humility that
raises you higher than any other gift could do."

He spoke so warmly that she looked up in wonder, but Lord Chandos turned
abruptly away; there might be danger if he said more.

So the lovely, leafy month of May ended, and June began. Then Lord
Chandos began to think of home--his birthday was on the thirtieth of
June, and he knew what he had promised for that day. He could see the
pretty, flower-covered window--the roses which must be thrust aside--the
gate he had promised to open; he remembered every detail. Well, it was
all very pretty and very pleasant; but, he could not tell why, the bloom
of the romance was gone, that was quite cert