Noel, during the hours of the night which followed, looked the whole situation in the face and made his resolutions, strong and fast, for the future of Christine and himself. His love for her, which she had not forbidden and could not forbid, must be enough for him henceforth, and because all his soul desired her love in return she should not, for that reason, be deprived of his friendship. When he thought of loving any other woman, and being loved by her in return, and contrasted it with the right to love Christine and be near her, forever unloved, he felt himself rich beyond telling.  
That evening, to put into effect at once this new resolution and conveying some hint of it to Christine, he went to Mrs. Murray’s. He rang the bell and entered the house with a strong sense of self-possession, which was only a very little disturbed when the maid again him into the little drawing-room where he found Christine alone.
 
He could see that his coming was unexpected. The lamp, by which she usually sat at work, was not lighted, and the gas in the hall cast only a dim light upon her here, but the fire lent its aid in up the figure. She was lying on the lounge before the fire as he came in, but she rose to her feet at once, saying, in a voice whose slight ring of disturbed a little farther yet his self-poised calm:
 
“Mrs. Murray has gone to see a neighbor whose daughter is very ill. They have just moved to the house and have no friends near, and she went to see what she could do. She will be back very soon. She did not think you would come to-night.”
 
Noel heard the little strained sound in her voice, and fancied he saw also about her eyes a faint trace of recent tears; but the light was turned low and she stood with her back to it, as if to screen herself from his gaze. A great wave of tenderness his heart. He felt sure he could trust himself to be tender and no more, as he said gently:
 
“Christine, have you been crying—here all alone in the darkness, with no one to comfort and help you to bear? The thought of it my heart.”
 
“Oh, it is nothing,” she said, her voice, in spite of her, choking up. “I sometimes get nervous—I am not used to being alone. It is over now. I will get the lamp—”
 
But he stopped her. He made one step toward her and took both her hands in his.
 
“Wait,” he said, in a controlled and quiet tone. In the silence that followed the word they could hear the little clock on the mantel ticking . Noel was trying hard, as they stood thus alone in the stillness and half-darkness, to gather up his suddenly-weakened forces, so that he might tell her, in the hope of giving her comfort, of the purpose he had entered into. But in the moment which he gave himself to make this rally a sudden influence came over him from the contact of the cold hands he held in his. At first it was a subtle, faint, indefinite sensation, as of something strange and wonderful and far away, but coming nearer. The very breath of his soul seemed suspended, to listen and look as he waited. The clock ticked on, and they stood there motionless as statues. Suddenly a short, low sigh escaped Christine, and he felt her cold hands tremble. The swift consciousness that ran through Noel was like living injected in his . He drew her two hands upward and crushed them against his breast.
 
“Christine,” he said, “you love me.”
 
She met his , gaze with direct, unflinching eyes.
 
“Yes,” she said distinctly, “I love you,” but with the of all her power she shook herself free from his grasp, and sprang away from him to the farthest limit of the little room.
 
“Stop,” she said, waving him back with her hand. “I have owned the truth, but I must speak to you—”
 
 
As well might Christine have tried to with a coming storm of wind. The chained spirit within Noel had been set free by the words, “Yes, I love you,” that Christine had spoken, and his love must have its way. He followed her across the room, and with a gentle force, against which she was as helpless as a child, he compelled her to come into his arms, to put down her head against his shoulder and to rest on his her bounding heart. He held her so in a close, restrictive pressure, against which she soon ceased to struggle, but lay there still and unresisting.
 
“Now,” he said gently, speaking the low word softly and clearly in her ear, “now, speak, and I will listen.”
 
“I love you,” she said brokenly.
 
Their full hearts together as he answered:
 
“That is enough.”
 
“It is all—the utmost,” she went on. “I can never marry you. When you loose me from your arms to-night it will be forever. Hold me close a little longer while I tell you.”
 
 
Her voice was faint and uncertain; her frame was trembling; he could feel the whole weight of her body upon him, as he held her against his heart, while the power that had come into him gave him a strength so that he supported the sweet burden as if its weight were nothing.
 
“Go on,” he murmured gently, in a secure and quiet tone, “I am listening.”
 
“I only want to tell you, if I can, how much I love you. I want you to know it all, that the of having it unsaid may leave me.”
 
Of her own will she raised her arms and put them about his neck, laying down her face on one of them, so that her lips were close against his ear.
 
“At the first,” she said, “I liked and admired you because I saw you were good and noble. Then I trusted you, and made your truth my anchor in the awful seas of trouble I was tossed in. Then I came to and almost worship you for the highness that is in you, and then, oh, then after my baby died and my other dreadful sorrow came, against my will, in spite of hard fighting and struggling and trying, I went a step higher yet and loved you, with a love that takes in all the rest—that is , and trust, and reverence, and love in one. Oh,” she said with a great sigh, “but it is all in vain! I cannot tell you—I cannot! I say the utmost, and it seems pale and poor and weak. You do not understand the love you have called into being in my poor, broken heart. I thought I should have the comfort of feeling I had told you. I feel only that I have failed! Oh, before we part, I want you to know how I love you—how the stress of it is bursting my heart—how the of it seems to expand my soul until it touches Heaven. Oh, if I could only ease my heart of its great weight of love by finding words to tell you.”
 
He put his lips close to her ear.
 
“One kiss,” he said softly, and then turned them to meet hers.
 
Christine gave him the kiss, and it was as he had said. The stress upon her heart was loosened. She felt that she had told him all.
 
“You are mine,” he said, in a calm, low voice of controlled , although, even as he said it, he loosed her from his arms and suffered her to move away from him and sink into a chair. He came and sat down opposite her, repeating the words he had spoken.
 
“No,” she said, “I am my own! I am the stronger to be so, now that the whole truth is known to you. Mr. Noel, I have only to tell you good-by. To-night must be the very last of it.”
 
“Mr. Noel!” he threw the words back to her, with a little scornful laugh. “You can never call me that again, without feeling it the hollowest ! I tell you you are mine!”
 
The assured, determined calm of his tones and looks began to frighten her. She saw the struggle before her assuming proportions that made her fear for herself—not for the strength of he............