The generosity shown in thus preferring her wishes to his own touched Fay more than any pleading could have done.  She was convinced of his unselfishness, and her confidence in him remained unshaken.  For some time after the scene in the boat she was very shy; but seeing he avoided the forbidden subject, and unconsciously growing each day fonder of his society, she allowed herself to drift into that closer intimacy which can have but one reason for its charm.  Maurice saw and rejoiced.  If he had won her heart he felt sure of surmounting the imaginary objection to his suit, and he resolved on a bold stroke.

One evening after a long walk they were seated on a huge table-rock jutting from the shore into the water, nothing but the lake before them, the sky above, the forest behind.  “Is it not a matter of surprise that you should still be living, Miss Lafitte? he asked, concealing his trepidation under the appearance of raillery.

“Why?”

“Because you have been in love with me for several weeks.”

Struck with the truth rather than the audacity of his assertion, she looked down, pondering intently a little space; then, not considering what the admission involved, she said in a choked voice, “You are right.”

“And it has not hurt you,” he went on eagerly.  “I cannot hurt you.  Won’t you believe me?”

Another longer pause, and the words came trembling forth:  “If it could be so!”

“It is so.  It has been already proved.”  He took her hand gently:  she permitted it to lie in his, and silence, the language of full hearts, ministered between them.

She broke it finally by the whispered question, “You are quite, quite sure that these warnings are not peculiar—­that science can account for them?”

“On my honor, yes.”

“I want to believe—­I do believe you.  I will risk my life for you:  I—­I—­I love you, Maurice.”

“My darling!”

She was very quiet, even sad, that evening.  Conversation seemed an effort, and after some vain attempts to shake off her depression she hastily retired.  After a long search Grey found her walking in one of the alleys of the garden, and could perceive by her tones that she had been weeping.

“In a very few days you will laugh at these pet superstitions.  Do not indulge this mood:  come and walk,” he said persuasively.

“You are cruel.”

“Indeed it is for your good.”

“Maurice, do you think we are justified in thus tempting Fate?”

He smiled at her as if she were a child:  “I have no doubts.”

Her eyes shone solemnly as she replied, “Then lead me, even to death.”

“To life—­to a happy life, dear Fay.”  He put her unresisting hand on his arm and led her to the door of her room:  “Sleep, my darling, and to-morrow you will feel more tranquil.”

The next day the young man congratulated himself:  Fay was as bright as if evil could never touch her.  On passing him at the breakfast-table she whispered, “I defy Fate.”