CHAPTER XIV.

EIN HERZ UND EIN SINN.

SOME women's love is born, and thrives apace, in absence and during silence between herself and the one who loves her. This was the case with Phillis; and Charles Cornish, could he have known it, had taken the surest means of forwarding his own suit, by his sudden departure and temporary absence from her side; for it enabled her to know her own heart. But her lover, with the not unfrequent blindness of his sex in such matters, saw only on his return Miss Maitland's altered manner towards himself, without being able to read its cause. She was constrained and uncommunicative with him, appeared, in fact, to have ceased to take any pleasure in his society, and that after the parting of a fortnight. How could he expect ever to win her love?

It was evening, and they were alone together for the first time since his return early in the day. An open air concert of unusual magnificence, together with

some brilliant illuminations, and a great display of lime-light, had filled the Kurgarten even more than usual; and assembled a crowd in which it was not difficult for any couple who wished for a tête-à-tête. to separate themselves from their party, and be lost for awhile.

Miss Cornish was the first to disappear down a sidewalk with her gallant captain, and her brother and Miss Maitland soon followed in the same direction; but there was an air of constraint between them, for they had quarrelled.

They had left the gay music, and the idle crowd, and the lamp-lighted terrace, for the silence of the shady walks, now dark, now moon-streaked. The night was still and windless, the air was heavy with the scent of petunias.

Phillis would have slipped her hand from her companion's arm, had he not prevented her, detaining it on his own for a minute.

'Are you offended with me?' he asked gently.

'It is not worth while.'

'Don't speak to me in that cold indifferent tone!' he exclaimed impetuously. It was not much that I asked of you. You would not have refused to walk with me before I went away, or acceded only in a way that robs the favour of its grace. Who has come between us in my absence?'

'No one.'

'Then what is it? I left you in faith, thinking that nothing could disturb our friendship and trust in one another; and I return, thinking only of our meeting, to find you altered and indifferent, unwilling to grant me the smallest favour, and

How was she to answer him? How could she tell him that she was unwilling to be alone with him because it was her own heart she feared?

'Hush, hush!' she interrupted, almost tremulously. 'You must not talk like that; it is not true. I am not of a demonstrative nature; but you must not misunderstand me.'

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'I will not, then. I will believe you, if you tell me to do so, and if you will assure me that you were in truth pleased to see me.'

'I was, indeed.'

'Then I will be satisfied, for I know you would not deceive any one.'

They had walked faster during this dialogue, and were now at the Well.

'Let us go, and see how the Nahe looks by moonlight,' he said, beginning to lead her up the steps; and, as she hesitated, he added, 'Don't refuse me again, or I shall doubt your last words.'

The moonlight streamed broad and clear over the water beneath them, silvering and idealising the little river into something poetic; while higher up, the sombre shadows of the vine-crowned hill darkened

and eclipsed it. A few lights twinkled from the houses along the river-bank, but everything was profoundly still.

The night was so calm, that the air which the band was playing could be distinguished, though faintly and loud and sonorous in the hush of nature the shallow stream went gurgling and moaning over its stony bed.

Phillis stood motionless as a statue, with her hands lightly clasped on the railing in front of her. With her tall form and dark trailing drapery, her lustrous eyes and pale moon-touched face, she was a beautiful emblem of the night. He stood near her, equally motionless, equally entranced as herself-she with the scene, he with her. To be near her, to be free to watch her, to feel her presence-for the moment it was enough for him. Ripple, ripple—the moaning of the river seemed to enchain them both.

She was the first to break the spell. She turned with a little sigh of regret, and a tender smile on her sensitive mouth. A sudden and, as it seemed to him, irresistible impulse came over him; he caught her in his arms and kissed her.

She started from him as if she had been stung; flushed and indignant, she stood before him.

'How could you dare!' she cried.

It was all she was able to say; her breath came short with startled indignation; tears of bitterest

mortification were rising in her eyes; she swiftly turned to leave him.

He seized her dress; he would not let her go; he forced her to hear him. His heart was full of passionate love for her, which found expression in ardent words that startled and half-frightened her. He had not meant to urge his suit until he was more sure of her answering love; but a moment's weakness had overcome him, and now that the flood-gates were unloosed, he let his feelings carry all before them in a mighty stream of impetuous prayer. He prayed for her love as the flowers might petition for the rays of the sun which was their life, as the thirsty earth might languish for reviving showers. He dedicated his whole life to her, and asked but for one word of hope in exchange. He was young, deeply in love, wholly in earnest, and the force of his passion made him eloquent. He tried to take her hand, to look into her averted face; but she clasped her hands together, and moved a pace away.

'I cannot listen to you, Mr. Cornish,' she said with a tremble in her voice. 'I am very, very sorry. Please say no more, and forget that this has happened.'

Forget it he cried. are saying? Can you

'Do you know what you

'Hush!' she interrupted, low and hastily. Some

one is coming.'