“I shall not give you a chance, my own; I shall neither rest myself nor let any one else rest until you are my wife.  I will not distress you now by talking about it.  I shall go to the duchess to-day, and tell her that you have relented in my favor at last; then you will let us decide for you, Madaline, will you not?”

“Yes,” she replied, with a smile; “it would be useless for me to rebel.”

“You have made some very fatal admissions,” he said, laughingly.  “You have owned that you love me; after that, denial, resistance, coyness, shyness, nothing will avail.  Oh, Madaline, I shall always love this spot where I won you!  I will have a picture of this brook-side painted some day.  We must go back to the house now; but, before we go, make me happy; tell me of your own free will that you love me.”

“You know I do.  I love you, Norman—­I will say it now—­I love you ten thousand times better than my life.  I have loved you ever since I first saw you; but I was afraid to say so, because of—­well, you know why.”

“You are not afraid now, Madaline?”

“No, not now,” she replied; “you have chosen me from all the world to be your wife.  I will think of nothing but making you happy.”

“In token of that, kiss me—­just once—­of your own free will.”

“No,” she refused, with a deep blush.

“You will, if you love me,” he said; and then she turned her face to his.  She raised her pure, sweet lips to his and kissed him, blushing as she did so to the very roots of her golden hair.

“You must never ask me to do that again,” she said, gravely.

“No,” returned he; “it was so remarkably unpleasant, Madaline, I could not wish for a repetition;” and then they went back to the house together.

“Norman,” said Madaline, as they stood before the great Gothic porch, “will you wait until to-morrow before you tell the duchess?”

“No,” he laughed, “I shall tell her this very day.”

Chapter XXII.

It was almost noon before Lord Arleigh saw Philippa, and then it struck him that she was not looking well.  She seemed to have lost some of her brilliant color, and he fancied she was thinner than she used to be.  She had sent for him to her boudoir.

“I heard that you were inquiring for me, Norman,” she said.  “Had you any especial reason for so doing?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I have a most important reason.  But you are not looking so bright as usual, Philippa.  Are you not well?”

“The weather is too warm for one to look bright,” she said, “much sunshine always tires me.  Sit down here, Norman; my room looks cool enough, does it not?”

In its way her room was a triumph of art; the hangings were of pale amber and white—­there was a miniature fountain cooling the air with its spray, choice flowers emitting sweet perfume.  The fair young duchess was resting on a couch of amber satin; she held a richly-jeweled fan in her hands, which she used occasionally.  She looked very charming in her dress of light material, her dark hair carelessly but artistically arranged.  Still there was something about her unlike herself; her lips were pale, and her eyes had in them a strange, wistful expression.  Norman took his seat near the little conch.