but the light in her eye was not faltering: it shone steadily—yes—it burned deeply.

"That is your revenge," she said, slowly: then added; "Would it be a bad match, unworthy of the late Charles Cave Keeldar's representative?"

"My lass, Moore is a gentleman: his blood is pure and ancient as mine or thine."

"And we two set store by ancient blood? We have family pride, though one of us at least is a Republican?"

Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute, but his eye confessed the impeachment. Yes—he had family pride—you saw it in his whole bearing.

"Moore is a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head with glad grace. She checked herself—words seemed crowding to her tongue, she would not give them utterance; but her look spoke much at the moment: what——Yorke tried to read, but could not—the language was there——visible, but untranslatable—a poem—a fervid lyric in an unknown tongue. It was not a plain story, however—no simple gush of feeling—no ordinary love-confession—that was obvious; it was something other, deeper, more intricate than he guessed at: he felt his revenge had not struck home; he felt that Shirley triumphed—she held him at fault, baffled, puzzled: she enjoyed the moment—not he."