loved any one very much, I should be jealous if I saw that person pay
much attention to any one else."

He looked at her carelessly, he spoke carelessly; if he had known what
was to follow, he would not have spoken so.

"But do you love any one very much?" he said.

The next moment he deeply repented the thoughtless words. Her whole face
seemed on fire with a burning blush. She turned proudly away from him.

"You have no right to ask me such a question," she said. "You are cruel
to me, Lord Chandos."

The red blush died away, and the sweet eyes filled with tears.

That was the _coup de grace_; perhaps if that little incident had never
happened, this story had never been written; but the tears in those
sweet eyes, and the quiver of pain in that beautiful face, was more than
he could bear. The next moment he was by her side, and had taken her
white hands in his.

"Cruel! how could I be cruel to you. Lady Marion? Nothing could be
further from my thoughts. How am I cruel?"

"Never mind," she said, gently.

"But I do mind very much indeed. What did I say that could make you
think me cruel? Will you not tell me?"

"No," she replied, with drooping eyes, "I will not tell you."

"But I must know. Was it because I asked you, 'if you ever loved any one
very much?' Was that cruel?"

"I cannot deny, but I will not affirm it," she said. "We are very
foolish to talk about such things as love and jealousy; they are much
better left alone."

There was the witchery of the hour and the scene to excuse him; there
was the fair loveliness of her face, the love in her eyes that lured
him, the trembling lips that seemed made to be kissed; there was the
glamour that a young and beautiful woman always throws over a man; there
was the music that came from the throats of a thousand birds, the
fragrance that came from a thousand flowers to excuse him. He lost his
head, as many a wiser man has done; his brain reeled, his heart beat;
the warm white hand lay so trustingly in his own, and he read on her
fair, pure face the story of her love. He never knew what madness
possessed him; he who had called himself the husband of another; but he
drew her face to his and kissed her lips, while he whispered to her how
fair and how sweet she was. The next moment he remembered himself, and
wished the deed undone. It was too late--to one like Lady Marion a kiss
meant a betrothal, and he knew it. He saw tears fall from her eyes; he
kissed them away,