pell of her beauty.

"Ask--ask what you will!" cries she. She laughs gaily, and throws
back her head. The last rays of the sunlight catch her hair, and
lift it to a very glory round her beautiful face. "Go on, go on,"
she says lightly. There is, perhaps, some defiance in her tone, but,
if so, it only strengthens her for the fight. "I am your captive!"
She gives a little expressive downward glance at his hands, as he
holds her arms. "Speak, my lord! and your slave answers." She has
thrown some mockery into her tone.

"I am not your lord," says Rylton. He drops her arms, and lets her
go, and stands well back from her. "That is the last part assigned
to me."

Mrs. Bethune's gaze grows concentrated. It is fixed on him. What
does he mean? What is the object of this flat rebellion--this
receding from her authority? Strength is hers, as well as charm, and
she comes to the front bravely.

"Now what _is_ it?" asks she, creeping up to him again, and now
slipping her arm around his neck. "How have I vexed you? Who has
been saying nasty little things about me? The dear mother, eh?"

"I want no one to tell me anything, but you."

"Speak, then; did I not tell you I should answer?"

"I want an answer to one question, and one only," says Rylton
slowly.

"That is modesty itself."

"Will you marry me?"

"Marry you?" She repeats his words almost in a whisper, her eyes on
the ground, then suddenly she uplifts her graceful form, and, lazily
clasping her arms behind her head, looks at him. "Surely we have
been through this before," says she, with a touch of reproach.

"Many times!" His lips have grown into a rather straight line.
"Still I repeat my question."

"Am I so selfish as this in your eyes?" asks she. "Is it thus you
regard me?" Her large eyes have grown quite full of tears. "Is my
own happiness so much to me that for the sake of it I would
deliberately ruin yours?"

"It would not ruin mine! Marry me, Marian, if--you love me!"

"You know I love you." Her voice is tremulous now and her face very
pale. "But _how_ can we marry? I am a beggar, and you----"

"The same!" returns he shortly. "We are in the same boat."

"Still, one must think."

"And you are the one. Do you know, Marian"--he pauses, and then goes
on deliberately--"I have been thinking, too, and I have come to the
conclusion that when one truly loves, one never calculates."

"Not even for the one beloved?"

"For no one!"

"Is love, then, only selfi