She lifted her head slowly, and looked at him steadfastly.

"You are right," she said. "It is useless to keep on this way any
longer."

"You consent, then?" said he, quite encouraged by her quiet air and
apparent willingness.

"Don't press me for an answer to-night," she replied, after a pause,
during which she regarded him with a singular fixity of expression. "Wait
till to-morrow. You shall have an answer to-morrow. You are quite right.
I've been thinking so myself. It is no use to put it off any longer."

He spoke to her once or twice after this, but she was gazing out through
the window into the darkening sky, and did not seem to hear him. He rose
to go, and had already reached the hail, when she called him--

"Come back a moment Henry."

He came back.

"I want you to kiss me," she said.

She was standing in the middle of the room. Her tall figure in its black
dress was flooded with the weird radiance of the rising moon, nor was the
moonshine whiter than her cheek, nor sadder than her steadfast eyes. Her
lips were soft and yielding, clinging, dewy wet. He had never thought a
kiss could be so sweet, and yet he could have wept, he knew not why.

When he reached his lodgings he was in an extremely nervous condition. In