ut. Fine night. The mist had gone, the stars were dimly
appearing. He turned back for his waistcoat and jacket. By mistake he
opened the closet door again instead of the one which led into the hall.

"I knew you would come!" she said, approaching so near to him from
out the somber blackness of the garments which draped the walls that
he could see her quite plainly by the light of the candle in her hand.
She wasn't a day over twenty. If she was pale, it was more the pallor
of fright than of ill health, or perhaps only because her skin showed
so white, lighted by the faint glare, in contrast to her deep eyes and
to the thick, glossy braids bound round and round above her forehead.
"John, John, won't you speak to me?"

He took a step forward, faltering. At that moment there was a brusque
movement beside him, and he turned to behold there a young man, dressed
in knee-breeches, wearing a purple waistcoat and velvet coat, as like
unto himself as his own image.

"Duty bade me come," the stranger answered stiffly, as if it was for his
ears that her words had been intended.

Hastings' gaze flew to meet hers, which he was astonished to find still
directed on him instead of on the speaker. He felt himself melted to
pity by her frailness and beauty and charm, so that he turned almost
angrily toward the intruder, who, at that moment, however, began to
address her in tones Hastings could but admire:

"To you!" cried out the young stranger--"you, for whom duty knows no
promptings!"

At that, Hastings turned to her again, his heart rent by the plea she
uttered.

"But you love me? You love me? Oh, say it to me!" And she was looking
not at his counterpart; she was imploring _him_, she was stretching her
arms out to _him_, she was veritably making her plea to _him_, as if he
were the one who had elicited it.

"I will do anything for you--anything!" he would have promised her had
not the threat of the stranger so like unto himself interrupted.

"Don't mock my patience, Lydia," Hastings heard as once more he shifted
his eyes to the speaker.

It was maddening how from one to the other of them his sympathies
veered. The sepulchral voice of the man seemed to express Hastings'
own thoughts; yet her sweet appeal awoke resentful fury for what words
he dared say to her. If only Hastings might explain, when she stared
so reproachfully, that it was only he who had spoken!

Momentarily at a loss, she put the candle down on a little shelf