Her head drooped as he took her hand. He drew her to him, and looked at
her. The tears escaped from her downcast eyes, and fell slowly over her
cheeks.

"O, Mr. Vendale," she said sadly, "it would have been kinder to have kept
your secret. Have you forgotten the distance between us? It can never,
never be!"

"There can be but one distance between us, Marguerite--a distance of your
making. My love, my darling, there is no higher rank in goodness, there
is no higher rank in beauty, than yours! Come! whisper the one little
word which tells me you will be my wife!"

She sighed bitterly. "Think of your family," she murmured; "and think of
mine!"

Vendale drew her a little nearer to him.

"If you dwell on such an obstacle as that," he said, "I shall think but
one thought--I shall think I have offended you."

She started, and looked up. "O, no!" she exclaimed innocently. The
instant the words passed her lips, she saw the construction that might be
placed on them. Her confession had escaped her in spite of herself. A
lovely flush of colour overspread her face. She made a momentary effort
to disengage herself from her lover's embrace. She looked up at him
entreatingly. She tried to speak. The words died on her lips in the
kiss that Vendale pressed on them. "Let me go, Mr. Vendale!" she said
faintly.