“Can’t you come to the house? Can’t you say it there?”

Townsend shook his head gloomily. “I can’t enter your doors again!”

“Oh, Mr. Townsend!” murmured Catherine. She trembled as she wondered what had happened, whether her father had forbidden it.

“I can’t in self-respect,” said the young man. “Your father has insulted me.”

“Insulted you!”

“He has taunted me with my poverty.”

“Oh, you are mistaken—you misunderstood him!” Catherine spoke with energy, getting up from her chair.

“Perhaps I am too proud—too sensitive. But would you have me otherwise?” he asked tenderly.

“Where my father is concerned, you must not be sure. He is full of goodness,” said Catherine.

“He laughed at me for having no position! I took it quietly; but only because he belongs to you.”

“I don’t know,” said Catherine; “I don’t know what he thinks. I am sure he means to be kind. You must not be too proud.”

“I will be proud only of you,” Morris answered. “Will you meet me in the Square in the afternoon?”

A great blush on Catherine’s part had been the answer to the declaration I have just quoted. She turned away, heedless of his question.

“Will you meet me?” he repeated. “It is very quiet there; no one need see us—toward dusk?”

“It is you who are unkind, it is you who laugh, when you say such things as that.”

“My dear girl!” the young man murmured.

“You know how little there is in me to be proud of. I am ugly and stupid.”

Morris greeted this remark with an ardent murmur, in which she recognised nothing articulate but an assurance that she was his own dearest.

But she went on. “I am not even—I am not even—” And she paused a moment.

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