lids.

'Stephen, it is over--happy love is over; and there is no more
sunshine now!'

'I will make a fortune, and come to you, and have you. Yes, I
will!'

'Papa will never hear of it--never--never! You don't know him. I
do. He is either biassed in favour of a thing, or prejudiced
against it. Argument is powerless against either feeling.'

'No; I won't think of him so,' said Stephen. 'If I appear before
him some time hence as a man of established name, he will accept
me--I know he will. He is not a wicked man.'

'No, he is not wicked. But you say "some time hence," as if it
were no time. To you, among bustle and excitement, it will be
comparatively a short time, perhaps; oh, to me, it will be its
real length trebled! Every summer will be a year--autumn a year--
winter a year! O Stephen! and you may forget me!'

Forget: that was, and is, the real sting of waiting to fond-
hearted woman. The remark awoke in Stephen the converse fear.
'You, too, may be persuaded to give me up, when time has made me
fainter in your memory. For, remember, your love for me must be
nourished in secret; there will be no long visits from me to
support you. Circumstances will always tend to obliterate me.'

'Stephen,' she said, filled with her own misgivings, and unheeding