at that liead ; the color of the hair ; the tranqvul kmd-
liness of the face; and the proud prettiness of the
neck."

"Do you love her?" I said, abruptly.
"Oh, how do I know?"

"Are you really a child, St. Clair ? Yes or no. How
is it with you?"

Then I looked from him steadily at the medallion.
I could not tell why it so touched me, but, as I looked,
my eyes filled. I was puzzled at my own causeless emo-
tion. Meanwhile, for this brief moment, he was silent,
and then his face, as I turned to it, took on a look I well
knew of peculiar sweetness as he said gently, "Would
you like me to love her?"

"No," I said.
"And why not ?" he went on, touching the clay here
and there.
"Because you would make a bad husband. You
would ia a year break her heart. You would not want
to. She is a woman resolute, proud, and firm as to her
beliefs, and the duties to which they bind her. You
have no creed. You are amoral, not immoral. You
would hurt her all the time, and at last lose her love
and — and — "

"Her respect. . Do Hose yours sometimes? Yes, I
know I do ; and you mean that you can fail to respect
me and yet cherish my friendship, but that with her
love must go with respect. Is that it?"

"Yes," I said, astonished.
