at her with a certain compassionate tenderness as he spoke. "I
want your sympathy, but I know I do not deserve it."

Helen remained silent. A faint flush crimsoned her cheeks, but her
eyes were veiled under the long lashes--she thought he could not
see them.

"You remember," he went on, "our pleasant times in Scotland? Ah,
it is a restful place, your Highland home, with the beautiful
purple hills rolling away in the distance, and the glorious moors
covered with fragrant heather, and the gurgling of the river that
runs between birch and fir and willow, making music all day long
for those who have the ears to listen, and the hearts to
understand the pretty love tune it sings! You know Frenchmen
always have more or less sympathy with the Scotch--some old
association, perhaps, with the romantic times of Mary Queen of
Scots, when the light and changeful fancies of Chastelard and his
brother poets and lutists made havoc in the hearts of many a
Highland maiden. What is that bright drop on your hand, Helen?--
are you crying?" He waited a moment, and his voice was softer and
more tremulous. "Dear girl, I am not worthy of tears. I am not
good enough for you."

He gave her time to recover her momentary emotion and then went
on, still softly and tenderly:

"Listen, Helen. I want you to believe me and forgive me, if you
can. I know--I remember those moonlight evenings in Scotland--holy
and happy evenings, as sweet as flower-scented pages in a young
girl's missal; yes, and I did not mean to play with you, Helen, or