of the dance. After a turn round the room, she complains of fatigue. Mr. Francis Aldersley looks at the conservatory (still as invitingly cool and empty as ever); lead

t! not even that little favor on the last night?”Her faithful heart takes his part, in spite of her. Her hand remains in his, and feels its soft persuasive pressure. She is a lost woman. It is only a question of time now!“Clara! do you love me?”There is a pause. She shrinks from looking at him — she trembles with strange contradictory sensations of pleasure and pain. His arm steals round her; he repeats his question in a whisper; his lips almost touch her little rosy ear as he says it again:“Do you love me?”She closes her eyes faintly — she hears nothing but those words — feels nothing but his arm round her — forgets Mrs. Crayford’s warning — forgets Richard Wardour himself — turns suddenly, with a loving woman’s desperate disregard of everything but her love — nestles her head on his bosom, and answers him in that way, at last!He lifts the beautiful drooping head — their lips meet in their first kiss — they are both in heaven: it is Clara who brings them back to