er took both her hands in his in a more effusive
manner than he had ever permitted himself to show since Pepita's
death, save once before he had decided on madame and when Josephine
had one day touched an old chord tenderly.

Holding her thus, he led her to the sofa with a certain look of
purpose in his face, of loving proprietorship in his bearing, that
made poor fond Josephine's foolish heart knock loudly against her
ribs.

Was it then coming at last, that reward of constancy for which she
had borne so much suspense, so many delays, such long dull days and
tearful nights? Was the rickety idol of her whole life's worship
really about to bless her with his smiles?

She cast down her eyes, trembling, blushing. She was thirty-five years
of age, but she was only a great girl still, and her love had the
freshness which belongs to the cherished sentiment of girlhood ripened
into the confessed, patient, unchanging love of maturity.

"You have been always good to me, Josephine," began Mr. Dundas, still
holding her hand.

Josephine did not answer, save through the crimson of her telltale
cheeks and the smile akin to tears about her quivering mouth.

"I think you have always liked me," he went on to say, looking down
into her face.

Josephine closed her hand over his more warmly and glanced up swiftly,
bashfully. Was there much doubt of it? had there ever been any doubt
of it?

"And I have always liked you," he added; and then he paused.

She looked up again, this time a certain tender reproach and surprise
lying behind her evident delight and love.

"Had not my darling Virginie come between us you would have been my
wife long ago," said Mr. Dundas, the certainty of her acceptance at
any time of their acquaintance as positive to him as that the famished
hound would accept food, the closed pimpernel expand in the sunlight.
"I was always fond of you, even in poor Pepita's time, though of
course, as a man of honor, I could neither encourage nor show my
affection. But Virginie--she took me away from the whole world, and I
lost you, as well as herself, for that one brief month of happiness."

His eyes filled up with tears. Though he was wooing his third bride,
he did not conceal his regret for his second.

By an effort of maidenly reserve over feminine sympathy Josephine
refrained from throwing her arms round his neck and weeping on his
shoulder for pity at his past sorrow. She had none of the vice of
jealousy, and sh