his affections to some other woman, the thought was very obnoxious to
her. He had not flattered her, he had been in no way slavish in his
attentions to her; but he had surrounded her with a kind of atmosphere of
love and admiration, the charm of which no girl thus beloved for the
first time in her life could be quite proof against.

Thus the story ended, as romances so begun generally do end. There came a
summer twilight, when Gilbert Fenton found himself once more upon the
dewy lawn under the walnut-trees alone with Marian Nowell. He repeated
his appeal in warmer, fonder tones than before, and with a kind of
implied certainty that the answer must be a favourable one. It was
something like taking the fortress by storm. He had his arm round her
slim waist, his lips upon her brow, before she had time to consider what
her answer ought to be.

"My darling, I cannot live without you!" he said, in a low passionate
voice. "Tell me that you love me."

She disengaged herself gently from his embrace, and stood a little way
from him, with shy, downcast eyelids.

"I think I do," she said slowly.

"That is quite enough, Marian!" cried Gilbert, joyously. "I knew you were
destined to be my wife."

He drew her hand through his arm and took her back to the house, where
the Captain was sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window, with a
reading lamp on the little table by his side, and the _Times_ newspaper
in his hand.