elevations followed each other at longer and
longer intervals. Now and again, the black
gauze head-dress nodded, dropped forward,
recovered itself. A little heap of stockings slid
softly from Madame Dor's lap, and remained
unnoticed on the floor. A prodigious ball of
worsted followed the stockings, and rolled
lazily under the table. The black gauze head-
dress nodded, dropped forward, recovered itself,
nodded again, dropped forward again, and
recovered itself no more. A composite sound,
partly as of the purring of an immense cat,
partly as of the planing of a soft board, rose
over the hushed voices of the lovers, and
hummed at regular intervals through the room.
Nature and Madame Dor had combined
together in Vendale's interests. The best of
women was asleep.

Marguerite rose to stop—not the snoring—
let us say, the audible repose of Madame Dor.
Vendale laid his hand on her arm, and pressed
her back gently into her chair.

"Don't disturb her," he whispered. "I
have been waiting to tell you a secret. Let me
tell it now."

Marguerite resumed her seat. She tried to
resume her needle. It was useless; her eyes
failed her; her hand failed her; she could find
nothing.

"We have been talking," said Vendale, "of
the happy time when we first met, and first
travelled together. I have a confession to
make. I have been concealing something.
When we spoke of my first visit to Switzerland,
I told you of all the impressions I had brought
back with me to England—- except one. Can
you guess what that one is?"

Her eyes looked steadfastly at the embroidery,
and her face turned a little away from
him. Signs of disturbance began to appear in
her neat velvet bodice, round the region of the
brooch. She made no reply. Vendale pressed
the question without mercy.

"Can you guess what the one Swiss
impression is, which I have not told you yet?"

Her face turned back towards him, and a
faint smile trembled on her lips.

"An impression of the mountains, perhaps?"
she said, slily.

"No; a much more precious impression
than that."

"Of the lakes?"

"No. The lakes have not grown dearer and
dearer in remembrance to me every day. The
lakes are not associated with my happiness in
the present, and my hopes in the future.
Marguerite! all that makes life worth having
hangs, for me, on a word from your lips.
Marguerite! I love you!"

Her head drooped, as he took her hand. He
drew her to him, and looked at her. The tears
escaped from her downcast eyes, and fell slowly
over her cheeks.

"Oh, Mr. Vendale," she said, sadly, "it
would have been kinder to have kept your secret.
Have you forgotten the distance between us?
It can never, never, be!"

"There can be but one distance between us,
Marguerite—- a distance of your making. My
love, my darling, there is no higher rank in
goodness, there is no higher rank in beauty, than
yours! Come! whisper the one little word
which tells me you will be my wife!"

She sighed bitterly. "Think of your family,"
she murmured; "and think of mine!"

Vendale drew her a little nearer to him.

"If you dwell on such an obstacle as that,"
he said, "I shall think but one thought—I
shall think I have offended you."

She started, and looked up. "Oh, no!" she
exclaimed, innocently. The instant the words
passed her lips, she saw the construction that
might be placed on them. Her confession had
escaped her in spite of herself. A lovely flush
of colour overspread her face. She made a
momentary effort to disengage herself from her
lover's embrace. She looked up at him
entreatingly. She tried to speak. The words
died on her lips in the kiss that Vendale
pressed on them. "Let me go, Mr. Vendale!"
she said, faintly.

"Call me George."

She laid her head on his bosom. All her
heart went out to him at last. "George!" she
whispered.

"Say you love me!"

Her arms twined themselves gently round
his neck. Her lips, timidly touching his cheek,
murmured the delicious words "I love you!"

In the moment of silence that followed, the
sound of the opening and closing of the house-
door came clear to them through the wintry
stillness of the street.

Marguerite started to her feet.

"Let me go!" she said. "He has come
back!"

She hurried from the room, and touched
Madame Dor's shoulder in passing. Madame
Dor woke up with a loud snort, looked first
over one shoulder and then over the other,
peered down into her lap, and discovered
neither stockings, worsted, nor darning-needle
in it. At the same moment, footsteps became
audible ascending the stairs. "Mon Dieu!"
said Madame Dor, addressing herself to the
stove, and trembling violently. Vendale
picked up the stockings and the ball, and
huddled them all back in a heap over her
shoulder. "Mon Dieu!" said Madame Dor,
for the second time, as the avalanche of worsted
poured into her capacious lap.

The door opened, and Obenreizer came in.
His first glance round the room showed him
that Marguerite was absent.

"What!" he exclaimed, "my niece is away?
My niece is not here to entertain you in my
absence? This is unpardonable. I shall bring
her back instantly."

Vendale stopped him.

"I beg you will not disturb Miss
Obenreizer," he said. " You have returned, I see,
without your friend?"

"My friend remains, and consoles our afflicted
compatriot. A heart-rending scene, Mr.
Vendale! The household gods at the pawnbroker's
—the family immersed in tears. We all