“No, sweet.  What would the great diplomatists of the world say to such a theory?  Rather try to believe that what is stolen is sweet.”

She smiled, but the anxious expression still lingered on her lovely young face.  He noticed it.

“As a rule, Marion, you are quite right.  Concealments are odious.  But there are exceptions—­this is one—­I love you; but I am only a poor artist, struggling to make a name.  You, sweet, are rich and beautiful.  From your high estate you smile upon me as a queen might smile on a subject.  You are a true heroine.  You are content ’to lose the world for love.’”

“I am content,” said the girl, with a little sigh of supreme happiness; “but I wish it were all open and straightforward.  I wish you would go to my guardian and tell him you love me.  Then tell Miss Carleton.  Indeed, she would not be angry.”

“Do you know what would happen if I did as you advise, Marion?” he asked.

“Nothing would happen,” she replied; “and they would be pleased to see me happy.”

“You have to learn some of the world’s lessons yet,” he said.  “If I were to go to Lord Ridsdale and say to him, ’My Lord, I love your ward and she loves me,’ do you know what he would do?”

“No,” she replied, slowly.

“He would send for you at once, and take such measures as would prevent me from ever seeing you again.  If I were to tell him, Marion, we should be parted forever.  Could you bear that, darling?”

“No,” she replied, “I could not, Allan.  If you think so, we—­we will keep our secret a little longer.”

“Thank you,” he said, gratefully, kissing the little white hand clasped in his.  “I knew you would not be cruel, Marion.  You are so heroic and grand—­so unlike other girls; you would not darken my solitary life for an absurd scruple—­you would not refuse to see me, when the sight of you is the only sunbeam that cheers my life.”

The beautiful face brightened at his words.

“You will write to me, Marion—­and, darling, my heart lives on your words—­they are ever present with me.  When I read one of your letters it seems to me your voice is whispering, and that whisper makes the only music that cheers my day.  Tell me in your letters once, and once again, that you will be my wife, that you will love me, and never care for any one else.”

“I have told you so,” she said; “but if the words please you, I will tell you over and over again, as you say.  You know I love you, Allan.”

“I know you are an angel!” cried the young man.  “In all the wide world there is none like you.”

Then he clasped the little white hands more tightly in his own, and whispered sweet words to her that brought a bright flush to her face and a love light to her eyes.  She drooped her head with the coy, pretty shyness of a bird, listening to words that seemed to her all poetry and music.

It was a pretty love scene.  The lovers stood at the end of an old-fashioned orchard; the fruit hung ripe on the trees—­golden-brown pears and purple plums, the grass under foot was thick and soft, the sun had set, the dew was falling, and the birds had gone to rest.