every detail of that evening. It was May then, and the hedge was white with hawthorn; there was a gleam of gold from the laburnums, and the scent of the lilacs filled the air; the apple trees were all in blossom, the birds were singing, the sun shining, warmth and fragrance and beauty lay all around her.

Far down the orchard, standing sketching a picturesque old tree, was the artist, Allan Lyster. He looked up as the sound of light footsteps rustled in the grass. When he saw who was coming he flung down his pencils and advanced, hat in hand.

There was something graceful and poetical, after all, in the way in which he went up to Miss Arleigh and knelt lightly on one knee.

"I would kiss the hem of your robe if I dared," he said. "How am I to thank you?"

Then he sprang up and took his sister's hand in his. He allowed no time for confusion and embarrassment—he was too clever for that.

"How am I to thank you, Miss Arleigh?" he said. "If the sun had fallen from the heavens, I could not have felt, more surprise than your kindness has caused me. My sister tells me you are good enough not to be angry at my presumption."

Miss Lyster laughed.

"I think, Allan," she said, "that I shall leave you to listen to Miss Arleigh's lecture alone. She will be able to say harder words to you if I am not by to listen. I will see if I can finish your picture."

She walked over to the tree where paper and pencils lay, leaving them alone, and though she was a woman, and young—though she knew that she was most foully betraying a girl whose youth and innocence might have pleaded for her, she had not even a passing thought of pity. "Let Allan win the fortune if he can. He will make better use of it than she could."

"You are so good to me," murmured the young artist, his dark eyes flashing keenly for one-half a minute over that beautiful face. "I am at a loss for words."

Allan Lyster was gifted with a most musical voice, and he understood perfectly well how to make the most use of it. The pathos with which he said those words was wonderful to hear.

"I am glad to see you," she said. "Your sister tells me you think of going abroad."

"Has she told you why?" he asked eagerly.

Marion's face grew crimson. The beautiful eyes dropped from his. She drew back ever so little, but another keen, sharp glance told him she was not angry; only shy and timid.

"You are so good to me," he continued, with passionate eagerness, "that I am not afraid to tell you. I must go; life here is torture to me; it is torture to see you, to hear you speak, to worship you with a heart full of fire, and yet to know that the sun is not farther from me than you, to know that if I laid my life at your feet you would only laugh at me and think me mad. It is torture so great that exile and death seem preferable."

He saw her lips quiver, and her eyes, half raised, had in them no angry light.

"You are a great lady," he said, "rich, noble, powerful. I am a poor artist. I have but one gift—that is genius. And I have dared, fired by such a beauty as woman never had before, to raise my eyes to you. They are dazzled, blinded, and I must suffer for my rashness; and yet—"

He paused, gave another keen glance, felt perfectly satisfied that what he was saying was well received, then went on:

"Artists before now have loved great ladies, and by their genius have immortalized them. But I am mad to say such things. This is the age of money-worship, and art is no longer valued as in those times."

"I do not value money," she said, in a clear, sweet voice. "I value many things a thousand times more highly."

"You are an angel!" he cried. "Even though my love tortures me, I would not change it for the highest pleasures other men enjoy. The poets learn by suffering what they teach in song; so it will be with me. Sorrow will make me a great artist; whereas, if I had been a happy man, I might never, perhaps, have risen much above the common level. I am resigned to suffer all my life."

"I do not like to hear you speak so," she said. "Life will not be all suffering."

"I have raised my eyes, looked at the sun, and it has dazzled me," he said. "Ah, lady, I have had such dreams, of love that overleaped all barriers, as Art has rendered loveliness immortal for all time. I have dreamed of loves such as Petrarch had for Laura, Dante for Beatrice, and I wake to call myself mad for indulging in such dreams."

She was deeply interested. This was exactly as heros spoke in novels; they always had a lofty contempt for money, and talked as though love was the only and universal good. She looked half shyly at him; he was very handsome, this young artist who loved her so, and very sad. How dearly he loved her, and how strange it was! In all this wide world there was not one who cared for her as he did; the thought seemed to bring her nearer to him. No one had ever talked of loving her before. Perhaps the beauty of the May evening softened her and inclined her heart to him; for after a few minutes' silence she said to him:

"We are forgetting the very object for which I consented to see you."

CHAPTER VI.

"It is no wonder," replied Allan Lyster. "I forget everything in speaking to you. You do well, lady, in making me remember myself."

"Do not mistake me," she said gently. "I only thought time is flying, and I have not said yet what I promised your sister I would say."

They had walked down the orchard, and they stood now under the spreading boughs of a large apple tree—the pink and white blossoms made the loveliest frame for that most fair face. She was lovely as the blossoms themselves.

"I feel like a criminal," said Allan Lyster; "and as though you were my judge. I tremble to know what you have to say."

"Yet it is not very terrible, Mr. Lyster. Your sister is my dearest friend, and she tells me that you are thinking of going abroad. She is very miserable over it. She fancies she should never see you again. I promised her that I would persuade you to stay."

His face flushed—his eyes flashed—he bent over her.

"See what little white hands yours are," he said; "yet they hold a life—a strong man's life. If you bade me stay, I would remain though death were the penalty. If you bade me go, I would go and never look upon a familiar face again."

"I do not like to say go, or stay," she replied, hesitatingly. "It is a serious thing to interfere with a man's life."

"I have dared already more than I ever dreamed of daring. I have told how rashly I have ventured to raise my eyes to the sun—you know my presumption. I have dared to kneel at your feet, and tell you that you are the star of my idolatry, the source of all my inspiration. You know that, yet you will not punish my presumption by telling me to go?"

"I will not," she replied, gently.

"Then you are not angry with me? I did not know life held such happiness as that. You know I love you? You are not angry?"

A sudden breeze stirred the apple blossoms, and they fell like a shower on her fair head.

"You must pardon me if I am beside myself with joy. Looking on your face, I grow intoxicated with your beauty, as men do with rare wines. Ah, lady! in the years to come and in the great world people may love you; but you shall look, and look in vain, for a love so true, so deep, so devoted as mine."

"I believe it," she replied.

"You believe it, yet you are not angry with me? You hold my life in your hands yet will not bid me go?"

He bent over her, his handsome face was glowing, his dark eyes flashing fire.

"I could fancy myself in a dream," he said; "it is too strange, too sweet to be true. There must be some intoxication in these apple blossoms. Dare I ask you one more grace?"

"I have not been very unkind," she said.

"Will you let me sometimes see you? I will not presume upon your kindness. Your face is to me what sunshine is to flowers. Do