sound to intimate that the life principle of a drowsy world was
existent. They seated themselves upon a rocky ledge, and Dorothy
became absorbed in reverie; while Paul, from a slightly lower point,
gazed up at the trees, the sky, and the girl, with mute infatuation.

"You lead such an ideal life here," he said, after some minutes of
silence, "that I should imagine the outer world would seem harsh and
cold by contrast."

"But I have never seen what you call the outer world," she answered,
with a touch of melancholy in her voice.

"Do you mean to say that you have lived here always?"

"Yes, and always shall, unless some one helps me away."

"I don't think I quite understand," he replied, "who could help you
away, if your own people would not. Pardon the allusion, but I do not
grasp the situation."

"I could never go with any of the Guirs," she answered, with a
shudder, "for I am quite as much afraid of them as they are of me."

Paul was again silent. He was meditating whether it were best to ask
frankly what she meant, and risk the girl's displeasure, as well as
his own identity, or to take another course. Presently he said:

"Dorothy, I would not pry into the secrets of your soul for the
world, and am sure you will believe in my honesty in declaring that
there is no one whom I would more gladly serve than yourself. I think