to let his really fine eyes have some play.  The conservatory is sufficiently dark to disguise the ravages that dissipation has made upon his handsome features.  He can see that Perpetua is regarding him earnestly, and with evident interest.  Already he regards his cause as won.  It is plain that the girl is attracted by his face, as indeed she is!  She is at this moment asking herself, who is it he is like?

“You were saying?” says she dreamily.

“That the charm you possess, though of no value in the eyes of your guardian, is, to me, indescribably attractive.  In fact—­I——­”

A second pause, meant to be even more effective.

Perpetua turns her gaze more directly upon him.  It occurs to her that he is singularly dull, poor man.

“Go on,” says she.  She nods her head at him with much encouragement.

Her encouragement falls short.  Sir Hastings, who had looked for girlish confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage.

“May I” says he—­“You permit me then to tell you what I have so long feared to disclose.  I”—­dramatically—­"love you!"

He is standing over her, his hand on the back of her chair, waiting for the swift blush, the tremor, the usual signs that follow on one of his declarations.  Alas! there is no blush now, no tremor, no sign at all.

“That is very good of you,” says Perpetua, in an even tone.  She moves a little away from him, but otherwise shows no emotion whatever.  “The more so, in that it must be so difficult for you to love a person in fourteen days!  Ah! that is kind, indeed.”

A curious light comes into Sir Hastings’ eyes.  This little Australian girl, is she laughing at him?  But the fact is that Perpetua is hardly thinking of him at all, or merely as a shadow to her thoughts.  Who is he like? that is the burden of her inward song.  At this moment she knows.  She lifts her head to see the professor standing in the curtained doorway down below.  Ah! yes, that is it!  And, indeed, the resemblance between the two brothers is wonderfully strong at this instant!  In the eyes of both a quick fire is kindled.

CHAPTER XII.

    “Love, like a June rose,
    Buds and sweetly blows—­
    But tears its leaves disclose,
    And among thorns it grows.”

The professor had been standing inside the curtain for a full minute before Perpetua had seen him.  Spell-bound he had stood there, gazing at the girl as if bewitched.  Up to this he had seen her only in black—­black always—­severe, cold—­but now!

It is to him as though he had seen her for the first time.  The graceful curves of her neck, her snowy arms, the dead white of the gown against the whiter glory of the soft bosom, the large, dark eyes so full of feeling, the little dainty head!  Are they all new—­or some sweet, fresher memory of a picture well beloved?