ppear into the darkness, no one knew it, for the stars tell no tales.

CHAPTER XXXVI

BREAKERS AHEAD

It was well that the stars, those bright-eyed spectators of a sleeping
world, tell no tales of us poor humans, or they might have whispered the
fact that the reasonable sober-minded Ursula Garston was holding foolish
vigil that night until the gray dawn drove her away to seek a brief rest.

But how could I sleep?--how could any woman sleep when such a revelation
had been vouchsafed her?--when a certain look, and those two words,
'Come, Ursula,' still haunted me,--that strange brief wooing, that was
hardly wooing, and yet meant unutterable things, that silent acceptance,
that simple yielding, when I put my hand in his, Giles's, and saw the
quick look of joy in his eyes?

Ah, the veil had fallen from my eyes at last: for the first time I
realised how all these weeks he had been drawing me closer to himself,
how his strong will had subjugated mine. My dislike of him had been
brief; he had awakened my interest first, then attracted my sympathy, and
finally won my respect and friendship, until I had grown to love him in
spite of myself. Strange to say, I had lost all fear of him; as I sat
holding communion with myself that night, I felt that I should never be
afraid of him again. 'Perfect love casteth out fear': is not that what
the apostle tells us? It was true, I thought, for now I did not seem to
be afraid either of Mr. Hamilton's strange stern nature, of the sadness
of his past life, or of the mysteries and misunderstandings of that
troubled household. It seemed to me I feared nothing,--not even my own
want of beauty, that had once been a trial to me; for if Giles loved me
how could such minor evils affect me?

Yes, as I sat there under the solemn starlight, with the jasmine sprays
cooling my hot cheek and the soft night breeze fanning me, I owned, and
was not ashamed to own, in my woman's heart, and with all the truth of
which I was capable, that this was the man whom my soul delighted to
honour; not faultless, not free from blame, full of flaws and
imperfections, but still a strong grand man, intensely human in his
sympathies, one who loved his fellows, and who did his life's work in
true knightly fashion, running full tilt against prejudices and the
shams of conventionality.

Often during the night I thought of my mother, and how she had told me,
laughing, that my father had never really asked her to ma