you speak, I mean, as I have given you no
right to speak."

"I own my presumption."

There was an interval of silence.

Mr. Stewart had thrown himself into
Daisy's low chair, and sat looking into
the fire with a baffled expression. Daisy
worked away again with spasmodic energy.

Her heart had just begun to beat quietly
once more, when Mr. Stewart came from
the fireside, and took a chair at the little
table just opposite her.

"Daisy, be so good as to put down your
work, and listen to me."

"I can listen just as" well while I work."

But he put his hand over hers, and held
it still.

"Tyrant! I wish you had pricked yourself!"

"It's my heart, Daisy, and not my hand,
of which you make a pincushion."

"That's nonsense, Kenneth."

"Of course that's nonsense, Daisy. I
never supposed it would pass with you for
anything else. But now I'm going to talk
sense, in sober seriousness. Daisy, I wish to
have a wife."

""Well, Kenneth, I suppose that is quite
natural."

"I think it is. I'm tired of being always
alone. Alone when I'm sad, alone when
I'm gay, alone when I'm sick, alone when
I'm well. I'm tired of it. It's dreary. I
want a wife."

"Well, Kenneth, I'm sure I don't see
any reason why you shouldn't have a wife.
You're not too old to marry, or too ugly,
or too poor. You're kind and good. You
won't have any difficulty in finding a
wife."

She kept her eyes fixed upon his hand,
still overlying her hand. He could not see
their expression, but he fancied a slight
tremor in her voice when she said, " You're
kind and good."

"But just ' a wife' would not satisfy me,
Daisy."

"You surely don't mean you want more
than one, Kenneth?"

"I mean, as you well know, Daisy, that
I don't want just any one. In fact, there
is in the world just one woman I want for
my wife."

"If that is so, Kenneth, and she doesn't
want to marry, or doesn't want to marry
you, it's an unhappy thing for you; because,
I suppose, in that case, ' Want,' as
used to be said to me when I was a child,
' must be your master.' '

"But, Daisy, she is such a tender, gentle,
loving little woman, that I think she would
take me out of pity, because I want her, if
she once clearly understood how desperately
I want her."

"That would be wicked in her, Kenneth,
and miserable for you—if she didn't love
you."

"But there it is, Daisy; there's the pity
of it. I fancy she does love me—loves me
as dearly as I could wish—but is letting
her brain be over-clouded by some absurd
cobweb or other, which, if I can't get at it,
to brush it away, may destroy both her
happiness and mine."

Daisy, trying to keep up a jesting tone,
murmured something of the vanity of men.
Not heeding her, Mr. Stewart went on:

"That she loves no one better than she
loves me, I, at least, feel sure. She has
brown eyes, that look loving when they
look into mine. She has soft, smooth,
brown hair, that often tempts my hand to
stroke it; and I hardly think, if it did so,
she would be angry. She has the sweetest
mouth in the world, with just one fault,
that it doesn't smile often enough, though
it looks as if meant to be always smiling.
She has a dear little soft hand, that seems
always glad to come into mine."

Daisy, at last, looked up at him, and
there was a world of flitting, flying trouble
in those eyes.

"It's no use to pretend I don't understand
you, Kenneth; but, indeed, Kenneth,
it can't, can't, can't be. There are reasons
of which you know nothing, of which you
guess nothing, why it can't be. If only
you'd let me alone; Kenneth, dear Kenneth,
pray, pray leave me alone."

"But, Daisy, this sort of answer is too
childish: it is ridiculous, dear, unworthy of
you. Because, now a good while ago, and
when you were little more than a child,
you loved, or believed you loved, a man
unworthy of love, is this to stand between
you and love for ever after? You say
there are reasons of which I know, and
can guess, nothing. But there cannot be,
beyond some trifles, in themselves nothing,
magnified by your morbidness: you are
making mountains of molehills."

"Am I, Kenneth?" There was bitterness
in her smile. " Would to Heaven I
could think so. It is not love, or the
memory of love, that stands between me
and love; but something does stand
between, and must all my lifetime. So,
Kenneth, dear Kenneth, leave me in peace.
I want nothing but quiet, of mind and
body. The things I most honestly thank