“No, I should tell him everything.  I should tell him he deserves to marry a woman who has never loved anyone but himself, and yet that I will be his wife if his marrying me will alone make him happy.”

“But, Coquette—­don’t you see it cannot end here?” he said almost desperately.  “You do not know the chains in which I am bound; and I dare not tell you.”

“No; I do not wish to know.  It is enough for me to be beside you now, and if it should all prove bad and sorrowful, I shall remember that once I walked with you here, and we had no thought of ill, and were for a little while happy.”

Talk of Glasgow being a sombre, grey city!  To the Whaup it seemed that the empty pavements were made of gold; that the fronts of the houses were shining with a happy light; and the air full of a delicious tingling.  For did not the great city hold in it Coquette?  And as he sped his boots clattered “Coquette!  Coquette!  Coquette!” And presently he was taking her out for a walk, and cunningly drawing near to a trysting well.

“Coquette,” he said suddenly, “do you know that lovers used to meet here, and join their hands over the well, and swear they would marry each other some day?  Coquette, if you would only give me your hand now!  I will wait any time—­I have waited already, Coquette.”

“Oh, do not say any more.  I will do anything for you, but not that—­not that.”  And then, a moment afterwards, she added:  “Or see; I will promise to marry you, if you like, after many, many years—­only not now—­not within a few years.”

“What is the matter, Coquette?  Does it grieve you to think of what I ask?”

“No, no!” she said, hurriedly, “it is right of you to ask it—­and I—­I must say Yes.  My uncle does expect it, does he not?  And you yourself, Tom, you have been very good to me, and if only this will make you happy I will be your wife, but not until after many years.”

“If you only knew how proud and happy you have made me!” exclaimed Tom, gaily.  “I call upon the leaves of the trees, and all the drops in the river, and all the light in the air to bear witness that I have won Coquette for my wife.”

“Ah, you foolish boy!” she said sadly.  “You have given me a dangerous name.  But no matter; if it pleases you to-day to think I shall be your wife, I am glad.”

III.—­The Opening of the Gates

Coquette, who loved the sunshine as a drunkard loves drink, was seated in the park in Glasgow, reading a book under her sunshade, when Lord Earlshope walked up to the place where she sat.

“Ah, it is you!  I do wish much to see you for a few moments,” she said.  “First, I must tell you I have promised to my cousin to be his wife.  I did tell you I should do that; now it is done, and he is glad.  And so, as I am to be his wife, I do not think it is right I should see you any more.”

“Coquette,” he said, “have you resolved to make your life miserable?  What have you done?”