useless; her eyes failed her; her hand failed her; she could find
nothing.

"We have been talking," said Vendale, "of the happy time when we first
met, and first travelled together. I have a confession to make. I have
been concealing something. When we spoke of my first visit to
Switzerland, I told you of all the impressions I had brought back with me
to England--except one. Can you guess what that one is?"

Her eyes looked stedfastly at the embroidery, and her face turned a
little away from him. Signs of disturbance began to appear in her neat
velvet bodice, round the region of the brooch. She made no reply.
Vendale pressed the question without mercy.

"Can you guess what the one Swiss impression is which I have not told you
yet?"

Her face turned back towards him, and a faint smile trembled on her lips.

"An impression of the mountains, perhaps?" she said slyly.

"No; a much more precious impression than that."

"Of the lakes?"

"No. The lakes have not grown dearer and dearer in remembrance to me
every day. The lakes are not associated with my happiness in the
present, and my hopes in the future. Marguerite! all that makes life
worth having hangs, for me, on a word from your lips. Marguerite! I
love you!"