atched his curly head in the firelight as he talked, and
his keen face as he looked up.

"It is all plain to me," he said, caressingly. "You have been living here
with my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling you
all about the Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good.
And you, my dear child, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving me
a little, is it not so? and longing that religion should not separate us;
and so you began to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and at
last you have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet self
that believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have known
so long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests and nuns; and
it is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it is only a lovely tale;
and you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And I have been
gradually led to the light; it was your--" and his voice faltered--"your
prayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand what it was
that made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your own
simple pure religion; and--and--it is so much more sensible, so much more
likely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible you
see; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I have
come to believe it too; and you must put all these fancies out of your
head, these dreams; though I love you, I love you," and he kissed her
hand again, "for wishing to believe them for my sake--and--and we will be
married before Christmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but it
shall be a true one."

This was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting thought
that she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in her
lover and was speaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation,
it seemed to reveal its weakness rather than its strength. As a dark
suggestion the thought was mighty; embodied in actual language it seemed
to shrink a little. But then, on the other hand--and so the interior
conflict began to rage again.

She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into the
chair.

"No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole."

Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as if
the raging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her.

"Now, Isabel," said Hubert.

"I cannot, I cannot," she cried desperately, "you must give me ti