me."

"No; it was selfish--selfish in the extreme. Nothing but one thing
could excuse me, and that excuse--"

"I'm sure you don't want any excuse, Mr. Fitzgerald."

"And that excuse, Clara, was this: that I love you with all my
heart. I had not strength to see you there, and not long to have you
near me--not begrudge that you should dance with another. I love you
with all my heart and soul. There, Lady Clara, now you know it all."

The manner in which he made his declaration to her was almost fierce
in its energy. He had stopped in the pathway, and she, unconscious
of what she was doing, almost unconscious of what she was hearing,
had stopped also. The mare, taking advantage of the occasion, was
cropping the grass close to them. And so, for a few seconds, they
stood in silence.

"Am I so bold, Lady Clara," said he, when those few seconds had gone
by--"Am I so bold that I may hope for no answer?" But still she said
nothing. In lieu of speaking she uttered a long sigh; and then
Fitzgerald could bear that she was sobbing.

"Oh, Clara, I love you so fondly, so dearly, so truly!" said he in
an altered voice and with sweet tenderness. "I know my own
presumption in thus speaking. I know and feel bitterly the
difference in our rank."

"I--care--nothing--for rank," said the poor girl, sobbing through