Truly indeed? How happy you make me!"

"And you can make me as happy,--happier, by the infinity of heaven over
earth!"

"But ought I to accept such a gift?" asked Eloise, oblivious of his last
speech. "But can I?--may I?"--as St. George's warning stole into her
memory.

"Most certainly you can! most certainly you shall! he is yours!" And
before Eloise could pour forth one of her multitudinous thanks, he had
moved away.

Marlboro's, however, was not that noble nature that spurns to beg at the
moment when it grants. Directly, he had wheeled about, and with an eager
air was again beside her.

"And, Eloise," he said, "if in response I might have one smile, one
hope"----

Thoughtlessly enough, Eloise turned her smiling face upon him, and gave
him her hand.

"And you give it to me at last, this hand, to crown my life!" he
said,--for to his excited brain the trifling deed seemed the weighty
event, and when he looked up Eloise still was smiling. Only for a
second, though, for her processes of thought were not instantaneous,
while to him it was one of Mahomet's moments holding an eternity, and
she smiled while she was thinking, thinking simply of her little
handmaiden's pleasure. She tried to release her hand. But Mr. Marlboro'
did not know that his grasp upon it was that of a vice, for under an
artificial stimulus every action is as intense as the fired fancy
itself. And as she found it impossible to free it without visible
violence, other thoughts visited Eloise. Why should she not give it to
him? Who else cared for it? What object had her lonely life? Speak
sweetly as they might, what one of her old gallants forgot her loss of
wealth? Here was a man to make happy, here was a heart to rest upon,
here was a slave of his own passions to set free. Why should she
continue to live with Mr. St. George for her haughty master, when here
was this man at her feet? Why, but that suddenly the conviction smote
her that she loved the one and despised the other, that she adored the
master and despised the slave? And she snatched away her hand.

Just then Mr. St. George was coming down the piazza again, on his
promenade, his head bent low as he spoke to the clinging little lady on
his arm. Passing Eloise, as he raised his face, their eyes met. She was
doing, he thought, the very thing that he had disadvised, and, as if to
warn her afresh, he looked long, a derisive smile curling his proud lip.
That was enough. "He knows it!" exclai