Did she love him?  Why ask herself the question?  She did love him—­she trembled to think how much.  It was that very love which made her hesitate.  She hardly dared to think of him.  In her great humility she overlooked entirely the fact of her own great personal loveliness, her rare grace and gifts.  She could only wonder what there was in her that could attract him.

He was a descendant of one of the oldest families in England—­he had a title, he was wealthy, clever, he had every great and good gift—­yet he loved her; he stooped from his exalted position to love her, and she, for his own sake, wished to refuse his love.  But she found it difficult.

She sat down by the brook-side, and, perhaps for the first time in her gentle life, a feeling of dissatisfaction rose within her; yet it was not so much that as a longing that she could be different from what she was—­a wish that she had been nobly born, endowed with some great gift that would have brought her nearer to him.  How happy she would have been then—­how proud to love him—­how glad to devote her sweet young life to him!  At present it was different; the most precious thing that she could give him—­which was her love—­would be most prejudicial to him.  And just as that thought came to her, causing the blue eyes to fill with tears, she saw him standing before her.

She was not surprised; he was so completely part and parcel of her thoughts and her life that she would never have felt surprised at seeing him.  He came up to her quietly.

“My darling Madaline, your face is pale, and there are tears in your eyes.  What is the matter?  What has brought you out here when you ought to be in-doors?  What is the trouble that has taken away the roses and put lilies in their place?”

“I have no trouble, Lord Arleigh,” she replied.  “I came here only to think.”

“To think of what, sweet?”

Her face flushed.

“I cannot tell you,” she answered.  “You cannot expect that I should tell you everything.”

“You tell me nothing, Madaline.  A few words from you should make me the happiest man in the world, yet you will not speak them.”

Then all the assumed lightness and carelessness died from his manner.  He came nearer to her; her eyes drooped before the fire of his.

“Madaline, my love, let me plead to you,” he said, “for the gift of your love.  Give me that, and I shall be content.  You think I am proud,” he continued; “I am not one-half so proud, sweet, as you.  You refuse to love me—­why?  Because of your pride.  You have some foolish notions that the difference in our positions should part us.  You are quite wrong—­love knows no such difference.”

“But the world does,” she interrupted.

“The world!” he repeated, with contempt.  “Thank Heaven it is not my master!  What matters what the world says?”

“You owe more to the name and honor of your family than to the world,” she said.