not turn its light from me."

"You see me at the lessons," she said.

"Pardon me, I do not. I never dare to look at you; if I did, Miss Carleton would soon know my secret. I am an artist, practiced to admire. I may say what in others would be simple impertinence. You look so beautiful, Miss Arleigh, with the sunlight falling on you through the apple blossoms. Will you let me make a picture of you, just as you are now? I could paint it well, for my whole heart would be in the work."

"I am willing," she said.

"And you will let me keep the picture when it is finished, and once or twice before the lovely summer fades you will come out here and see me again?"

"Yes," she said, "I will come again."

"I shall keep those few penciled words you sent me until I die," he said, "and then they shall be buried with me."

Allan Lyster was a wise general; he knew exactly when it was time to retreat. He would fain have lingered by her side talking to her, looking in her lovely face, but prudence told him that he had said enough. He looked across at the trees and signed to his sister, unseen and unknown to Miss Arleigh. Adelaide, quick to take the hint, joined them at once.

"I shall not show you my sketch, Allan," she said laughingly; "it will not show well by the side of yours. Marion, we must go. Have you accomplished my heart's desire—persuaded my brother to stay?"

"He did not want much persuasion," she replied, suddenly remembering with surprise how little had been said about the matter.

"I hope Allan has made no blunder," thought the sister; aloud she said, "I know it. I knew that one look from you would do all that my prayers failed to accomplish. We must go, Marion; it is time to re-enter the house."

"Miss Arleigh," said Allan Lyster, "when I wake to-morrow, I shall fancy all this but a dream. Will you give me something to make me remember that it is indeed a happy reality?"

"What shall I give you?" asked the girl.

"You have held that spray of apple blossoms in your hand all the evening," he said, "give me that."

She laughed and held it out to him.

"Thank you," he said; "now that you have touched it it ought not to die."

"Do all artists talk like you, Mr. Lyster?"

"When the same subject inspires them," he replied, and then Adelaide reminded them again that time was flying, and they must be gone.

A few more minutes and the handsome young artist was walking quickly down the high road. He had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. He felt as sure of winning the beautiful young heiress as though he had placed already a wedding ring upon her finger. He laughed to himself to think how easy the task was; so easy, in fact, that he felt a touch of contempt for that which was so easily won.

"It will be a good thing for me," he said to himself. "If I succeed, painting may go. I shall not trouble myself about anything but spending money. If I succeed, Adelaide shall have her reward." And he pleased himself by thinking how, out of his forty thousands, he would give her a fortune.

"She deserves it. She has worked hard for me, and she shall not be forgotten."

It did not occur to him that there would arise any serious difficulty. Of course, no steps could be taken until she was twenty-one. He could not marry her without the consent of her guardian, and to ask for it was, of course, nonsense. He would bind her to himself with the most solemn of promises, and the very day she was of age they would be married. As he walked toward his humble lodgings he amused himself by thinking what he should do when he became master of Hanton Hall. No sentiment troubled Allan Lyster; he could make love in any style he liked to anyone who suited him. As to any remorse over the girl his sister had betrayed and they had both deceived, he felt none.

"How do you like him, Marion?" asked Adelaide Lyster, as the two walked home.

"He is very handsome and very clever," was the grave reply.

"Add to that—he is more deeply in love than any man ever was yet," said Miss Lyster, laughingly. "Marion, he worships you—his love is something that frightens me."

Miss Arleigh avowed that it was true.

"He will go home," continued Adelaide, "and instead of going to sleep like a sensible man, he will walk about all night, composing grand poems about you."

"Does he write poetry?" asked Marion, with increased admiration.

"He is a poet and artist both," said his sister, with a little touch of pride that amused the heiress.

That was Miss Arleigh's first interview with her admirer, the second was, he assured her, for the sake of the picture—the third, that he might see how the picture was going on—the fourth, that she might see it completed—the fifth, because she found the flattery of his love so irresistible she could no longer do without it—the sixth, because she began to fall in love with him herself—and then she lost all count, she lived for those interviews, and nothing else.

"I want to impress one thing upon you," said Adelaide to her brother; "bear it always in mind. When you think you have made sufficient advances in her favor to ask her to marry you, do not rest satisfied with her spoken word, make her write it. It will be of no use to you unless you do that."

"Explain a little further, my wisest of sisters," said Allan.

"A written promise of marriage is the only security a man has. Women change like the wind, without rhyme or reason. But if you have her own word pledged to you, her promise of marriage written so that there shall be no mistake, then it will be worth a fortune to you."

"Even if she should refuse to fulfil"—

"You are not very worldly wise, Allan," said his sister with the slightest tinge of contempt in her voice. "If she fulfils it, all well and good. The very fact of having written it keeps a girl true when she should otherwise be false. But if she refuses to keep it, the remedy then is in your own hands."

"And that remedy is"—he began, but she interrupted him quickly.

"The remedy is, of course, an action at law; or what would be far more efficacious in her case, holding her letters as a means of getting money from her. A proud woman will sacrifice any amount of wealth rather than have such a thing known."

Marion Arleigh fell easily into the plot laid by those she considered her best friends.

CHAPTER VII.

It is not pleasant to trace the steps by which the simple credulous girl fell into the snare laid for her. She had sense and reason, but they were both overbalanced by romance—she saw only the ideal side of everything. The romance of this hidden love was delightful to her; she compared herself to every heroine in fiction, and found none of them in a more charming position that herself.

Allan's profession had something to do with romance; had he been a mere commonplace doctor or lawyer it would have been a different matter, but an artist—the halo of his art transfigured him in her eyes—thus to be capable of a deep and passionate love such as he felt for her!

It was altogether like one of those romances that charmed her; and after a time she gave herself up entirely to her love.

By the skilful mamnagement of Adelaide Lyster their meetings became very frequent, and before long he had won from her a promise that she would love him all her life, and would consent to marry him. Even at that time, when she was most ecstatic, most carried away by the novelty and the romance, even then, if any sensible person had spoken to her, she would have understood more her position than she did now.

If anyone had said to her: "That man is not a hero, he is only a fortune hunter; he is not even an honorable man, or he would not seek to decoy you from your duty to bind you to an underhand agreement; instead of being honorable and a hero he is dishonorable and a rogue"—she had sense enough to have seen that. She understood