he have doubted her love
after the few words that had been spoken on that night when Lady
Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She could not
remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember that he had
spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event, and that she
had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she had confessed her
own love to her mother. He, of course, had known nothing of that
confession; but he must have known that he had her heart!

So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of lace, as
ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing. She had
endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was speaking to
her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap. She would
have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but there are
times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the hands will
hardly act mechanically.

'Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one
moment so as to let me know.' Her eyes had turned downwards after her
work. 'If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once.'

'Roger is very dear to me.'

'Do you love him as I would have you love me?'

She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and
then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. 'No,'
she said,--'not like that.'

'Can you love me like that?' He put out both his arms as though to
take her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to hear.
She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and left it
with him when he seized it. 'Is it mine?' he said.

'If you want it.'

Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hand, and her dress,
looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with
joy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success.
'Want it!' he said. 'Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that with
real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my
only dream of happiness. And now it is my own.'

She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the
truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did
not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could
ever have loved anybody but him even,--if he had not been fond of her.
As to Roger,--dear Roger, dearest Roger,--no; it was not the same
thing. 'He is as good as gold,' she said,--'ever so much bett