thrown some mockery into her tone.

"I am not your lord," says Rylton. He drops her arms, and lets her
go, and stands well back from her. "That is the last part assigned
to me."

Mrs. Bethune's gaze grows concentrated. It is fixed on him. What
does he mean? What is the object of this flat rebellion--this
receding from her authority? Strength is hers, as well as charm, and
she comes to the front bravely.

"Now what _is_ it?" asks she, creeping up to him again, and now
slipping her arm around his neck. "How have I vexed you? Who has
been saying nasty little things about me? The dear mother, eh?"

"I want no one to tell me anything, but you."

"Speak, then; did I not tell you I should answer?"

"I want an answer to one question, and one only," says Rylton
slowly.

"That is modesty itself."

"Will you marry me?"

"Marry you?" She repeats his words almost in a whisper, her eyes on
the ground, then suddenly she uplifts her graceful form, and, lazily
clasping her arms behind her head, looks at him. "Surely we have
been through this before," says she, with a touch of reproach.