“How beautiful it is, Norman,” she said, suddenly.  “What music has ever equaled the whispers of the night-wind?  It seems a sad pity after all that we are obliged to lead such conventional lives, and spend the greater part of them in warm, close rooms.”

“You have a great love for out-of-door freedom,” he remarked, laughingly.

“Yes, I love the fresh air.  I think if any one asked me what I loved best on earth, I should say wind.  I love it in all its moods—­rough, caressing, tender, impetuous, calm, stormy.  It is always beautiful.  Listen to it now, just sighing in the branches of those tall trees.  Could any music be sweeter or softer?”

“No,” he replied, and then added, “The time and the scene embolden me, Philippa; there is something that I wish to say to you—­something that I long have wished to say.  Will you hear it now?”

A tremor like that of the leaves in the wind seemed to pass over her.  There was a startled expression in the dark eyes, a quiver of the crimson lips.  Was it coming at last—­this for which she had longed all her life?  She controlled all outward signs of emotion and turned to him quite calmly.

“I am always ready to listen to you, Norman, and to hear what you have to say.”

“You see, Philippa, the starlight makes me bold.  If we were in that brilliantly-lighted drawing-room of yours, I should probably hesitate long before speaking plainly, as I am going to do now.”

He saw her clasp her hands tightly, but he had no key to what was passing in her mind.  He drew nearer to her.

“You know, Philippa,” he began, “that I have always been fond of you.  I have always taken the same interest in you that I should have taken in a dearly-beloved sister of my own, if Heaven had given me one.”

She murmured some few words which he did not hear.

“I am going to speak to you now,” he continued, “just as though you were my own sister, have I your permission to do so, Philippa?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“And you promise not to be angry about any thing that I may say?”

“I could never be angry with you, Norman,” she answered.

“Then I want you to tell me why you will not marry the Duke of Hazlewood.  You have treated me as your brother and your friend.  The question might seem impertinent from another; from me it will not appear impertinent, not curious—­simply true and kindly interest.  Why will you not marry him, Philippa?”

A quick sharp spasm of pain passed over her face.  She was silent for a minute before she answered him, and then she said: 

“The reason is very simple, Norman—­because I do not love him.”

“That is certainly a strong reason; but, Philippa, let me ask you now another question—­why do you not love him?”

She could have retorted, “Why do you not love me?” but prudence forbade it.

“I cannot tell you.  I have heard you say that love is fate.  I should imagine it must be because the Duke of Hazlewood is not my fate.”