Certinaly Madge had not said too much, and the scene was like witchery.The sun was down, but the moon was up, near full, and giving a whiteillumination to the white world. The snow had fallen thick, and neithersun nor wind had as yet made any impression upon it; the covering ofthe road was thick and well beaten, and on every exposed level surfacelay the white treasure piled up. Every twig and branch of the treesstill held its burden; every roof was blanketed; there had been no timeyet for smoke and soil to come upon the pure surfaces; and on all thisfell the pale moon rays, casting pale shadows and making the worldsomehow look like something better than itself. The horses Mr. Dillwyndrove were fresh enough yet, and stepped off gaily, their bellsclinking musically; and other bells passed them and sounded in thenearer and further distance. Moreover, under this illumination all lessagreeable features of the landscape were covered up. It was a pureregion of enchanted beauty to Lois's sense, through which they drove; and she felt as if a spell had come upon her too, and this bit ofexperience were no more real than the rest of it. It was exquisitelyand intensely pleasant; a bit of life quite apart and by itself, andnever to be repeated, therefore to be enjoyed all she could while shehad it. Which thought was not enjoyment. Was she not foolish to havecome?

"Are you comfortable?" suddenly Mr. Dillwyn's voice came in upon thesemusings.

"O, perfectly!" Lois answered, with an accentuation between delight anddesperation.

And then he was silent again; and she went on with her musings, justthat word having given them a spur. How exquisite the scene was! howexquisite everything, in fact. All the uncomelinesses of a city suburbwere veiled under the moonlight; nothing but beauty could be seen; herewere points that caught the light, and there were shadows that simplyserved to set off the silvery whiteness of the moon and the snow; whatit was that made those points of reflection, or what lay beneath thosesoft shadows, did not appear. The road was beaten smooth, the going wascapital, the horses trotted swiftly and steadily, Lois was wrapped insoft furs, and the air which she was breathing was merely cold enoughto exhilarate. It was perfection. In truth it was so perfect, and Loisenjoyed it so keenly, that she began to be vexed at herself for herenjoyment. Why should Mr. Dillwyn have got her out? all this luxury ofsense and feeling was not good for her; did not belong to her; and whyshould she taste at all a delight which must be so fleeting? And whathad possessed him to tie her hood strings for her, and to do it in thatleisurely way, as if he liked it? And why did she like it? Loisscolded and chid herself. If he were going to marry Madge ever so much, that gave him no right to take such a liberty; and she would not allowhim such liberties; she would keep him at a distance. But was she notgoing to a distance herself? There would be no need.

The moonlight was troubled, though by no cloud on the etherealfirmament; and Lois was not quite so conscious as she had been of thebeauty around her. The silence lasted a good while; she wondered if herneighbour's thoughts were busy with the lady he had just set down, tosuch a degree that he forgot to attend to his new companion? Nothingcould be more wide of the truth; but that is the way we judge andmisjudge one another. She was almost hurt at his silence, before hespoke again. The fact is, that the general axiom that a man can alwaysput in words anything of which his head and heart are both full, seemsto have one exception. Mr. Dillwyn was a good talker, always, onmatters he cared about, and matters he did not care about; and yet now, when he had secured, one would say, the most favourable circumstancesfor a hearing, and opportunity to speak as he liked, he did not knowhow to speak. By and by his hand came again round Lois to see that thefur robes were well tucked in about her. Something in the action madeher impatient.

"I am very well," she said.

"You must be taken care of, you know," he said; to Lois's fancy he saidit as if there were some one to whom he must be responsible for her.

"I am not used to being taken care of," she said. "I have taken care ofmyself, generally."

"Like it better?"

"I don't know. I suppose really no woman can say she likes it better.

But I am accustomed to it."

"Don't you think I could take care of you?"

"You are taking capital care of me," said Lois, not knowing exactlyhow to understand him. "Just now it is your business; and I should sayyou were doing it well."

"What would you say if I told you that I wanted to take care of you allyour life?"

He had let the horses come to a walk; the sleigh-bells only tinkledsoftly; no other bells were near. Which way they had gone Lois had notconsidered; but evidently it had not been towards the busy and noisyhaunts of men. However, she did not think of this till a few minutesafterwards; she thought now that Mr. Dillwyn's words regarded Madge'ssister, and her feeling of independence became rigid.

"A kind wish, – but impracticable," she answered.

"Why?"

"I shall be too far off. That is one thing."

"Where are you going to be? – Forgive me for asking!"

"O yes. I shall be keeping school in New England somewhere, I suppose; first of all, at Esterbrooke."

"But if I had the care of you – you would not be there?"

"That is my place," said Lois shortly.

"Do you mean it is the place you prefer?"

"There is no question of preference. You know, one's work is what isgiven one; and the thing given me to do, at present, seems to be there.Of course I do prefer what my work is."

Still the horses were smoothly walking. Mr. Dillwyri was silent amoment.

"You did not understand what I said to you just now. It was earnest."

"I did not think it was anything else," said Lois, beginning to wishherself at home. "I am sure you meant it, and I know you are very good; but – you cannot take care of me."

"Give me your reasons," he said, restraining the horses, which wouldhave set off upon a quicker pace again.

"Why, Mr. Dillwyn, it is self-evident. You would not respect me if Iallowed you to do it; and I should not respect myself. We New Englandfolks, if we are nothing else, we are independent."

"So? – " said Mr. Dillwyn, in a puzzled manner, but then a light brokeupon him, and he half laughed. – "I never heard that the most rampantspirit of independence made a wife object to being dependent on herhusband."

"A wife?" said Lois, not knowing whether she heard aright.

"Yes," said he. "How else? How could it be else? Lois, may I have you,to take care of the rest of my life, as my very own?"

The short, smothered breath with which this was spoken was intelligibleenough, and put Lois in the rarest confusion.

"Me? – " was all she could ejaculate.

"You, certainly. I never saw any other woman in my life to whom Iwished to put the question. You are the whole world to me, as far ashappiness is concerned."

"I? – " said Lois again. "I thought – "

"What?"

She hesitated, and he urged the question. Lois was not enough mistressof herself to choose her words.

"I thought – it was somebody else."

"Did you? – Who did you think it was?"

"O, don't ask me!"

"But I think I must ask you. It concerns me to know how, and towardswhom, my manner can have misled you. Who was it?"

"It was not – your manner – exactly," said Lois, in terribleembarrassment. "I was mistaken."

"How could you be mistaken?"

"I never dreamed – the thought never entered my head – that – it was I."

"I must have been in fault then," said he gently; "I did not want towear my heart on my sleeve, and so perhaps I guarded myself too well. Idid not wish to know anybody else's opinion of my suit till I had heardyours. What is yours, Lois? – what have you to say to me?"

He checked the horses again, and sat with his face inclined towardsher, waiting eagerly, Lois knew. And then, what a sharp pain shotthrough her! All that had gone before was nothing to this; and for amoment the girl's whole nature writhed under the torture. She knew herown mind now; she was fully conscious that the best gift of earth waswithin her grasp; her hands were stretched longingly towards it, herwhole heart bounded towards it; to let it go was to fall into an abyssfrom which light and hope seemed banished; there was everything in allthe world to bid her give the answer that was waited for; only dutybade her not give it. Loyalty to God said no, and her promise bound hertongue. For that minute that she was silent Lois wrestled with mortalpain. There are martyrs and martyrdoms now-a-days, that the world takesno account of; nevertheless they have bled to death for the cause, andhave been true to their King at the cost of all they had in the world.Mr. Dillwyn was waiting, and the fight had to be short, though well sheknew the pain would not be. She must speak. She did it huskily, andwith a fierce effort. It seemed as if the words would not come out.

"I have nothing to say, Mr. Dillwyn, – that you would like to hear," sheadded, remembering that her first utterance was rather indefinite.

"You do not mean that?" he said hurriedly.

"Indeed I do."

"I know," he said, "you never say anything you do not mean. But how do you mean it, Lois? Not to deny me? You do not mean that?"

"Yes," she said. And it was like putting a knife through her own heartwhen she said it. O, if she were at home! O, if she had never come onthis drive! O, if she had never left Esterbrooke and thosesick-beds! – But here she was, and must stand the question; and Mr.Dillwyn had not done.

"What reason do you give me?" – and his voice grated now with pain.

"I gave none," said Lois faintly. "Don't let us talk about it! It is nouse. Don't ask me anything more!"

"One question I must. I must know it. Do you dislike me, Lois?"

"Dislike? O no! how should I dislike you?" she answered. There was alittle, very slight, vibration in her voice as she spoke, and hercompanion discerned it. When an instrument is very high strung, a quitesoft touch will be felt and answered, and that touch swept all thestrings of Mr. Dillwyn's soul with music.

"If you do not dislike me, then," said he, "what is it? Do you, possibly like me, Lois?"

Lois could not prevent a little hesitation before she answered, andthat, too, Philip well noted.

"It makes no difference," she said desperately. "It isn't that. Don'tlet us talk any more about it! Mr. Dillwyn, the horses have beenwalking this great while, and we are a long way from home; won't youdrive on?"

He did drive on then, and for a while said not a word more. Lois waspanting with eagerness to get home, and could not go fast enough; shewould gladly have driven herself, only not quite such a fresh and gaypair of horses. They swept along towards a region that she could seefrom afar was thicker set with lights than the parts where they were.Before they reached it, however, Mr. Dillwyn drew rein again, and madethe horses walk gently.

"There is one question still I must ask," he said; "and to ask it, Imust for a moment disobey your commands. Forgive me; but when thehappiness of a whole life is at stake, a moment's pain must beborne – and even inflicted – to make sure one is not suffering needlesslya far greater evil. Miss Lois, you never do anything without a reason; tell me your reason for refusing me. You thought I liked some one else;it is not that; I never have liked any one else. Now, what is it?"

"There is no use in talking," Lois murmured. "It is only pain."

"Necessary pain," said he firmly. "It is right I should know, and itmust be possible for you to tell me. Say that it is because you cannotlike me well enough – and I shall understand that."

But Lois could not say it; and the pause, which embarrassed herterribly, had naturally a different effect upon her companion.

"It is not that!" he cried. "Have you been led to believe somethingfalse about me, Lois? – Lois?"

"No," she said, trembling; the pain, and the difficulty of speaking, and the struggle it cost, set her absolutely to trembling. "No, it issomething true." She spoke faintly, but he listened well.

"True! What is it? It is not true. What do you mean, dear?"

The several things which came with the intonations of this lastquestion overset the remnant of Lois's composure. She burst into tears; and he was looking, and the moonlight was full in her face, and hecould not but see it.

"I cannot help it," she cried; "and you cannot help it. It is no use totalk about it. You know – O, you know – you are not a Christian!"

It was almost a cry at last with which she said it; and the usuallyself-contained Lois hid her face away from him. Whether the horseswalked or trotted for a little while she did not know; and I think itwas only mechanical, the effort by which their driver kept them at afoot pace. He waited, however, till Lois dropped her hands again, andhe thought she would attend to him.

"May I ask," he then said, and his voice was curiously clear andcomposed, – "if that is your only objection to me?"

"It is enough!" said Lois smotheredly, and noticing at the same timethat ring in his voice.

"You think, one who is a Christian ought never to marry another who isnot a Christian?"

"No!" she said, in the same way, as if catching her breath.

"It is very often done."

She made no reply. This was a most cruel discussion, she thought. Wouldthey never reach home? And the horses walking! Walking, and shakingtheir heads, with soft little peals of the bells, like creatures whohad at last got quiet enough to like walking.

"Is that all, Lois?" he asked again; and the tone of his voiceirritated her.

"There need not be anything more," she answered. "That is enough. It isa barrier for ever between us; you cannot overcome it – and I cannot. O,do make the horses go! we shall never get home! and don't talk anymore."

"I will let the horses go presently; but first I must talk a littlemore, because there is something that must be said. That was abarrier, a while ago; but it is not now. There is no need for either ofus to overcome it or try to overcome it, for it does not exist. Lois,do you hear me? It does not exist."

"I do not understand," she said, in a dazed kind of way, turningtowards him. "What does not exist?"

"That barrier – or any barrier – between you and me."

"Yes, it does. It is a barrier. I promised my dear grandmother – andif I had not promised her, it would be just the same, for I havepromised to obey God; and he forbids it."

"Forbids what?"

"Forbids me, a Christian, to have anything to do with you, who are nota Christian. I mean, in that way."

"But, Lois – I am a Christian too."

"You?" she said, turning towards him.

"Yes."

"What sort of a one?"

Philip could not help laughing at the naïve question, which, however,he perfectly understood.

"Not an old one," he said; "and not a good one; and yet, Lois, truly anhonest one. As you mean the word. One whose King Christ is, as he isyours; and who trusts in him with the whole heart, as you do."

"You a Christian!" exclaimed Lois now, in the greatest astonishment.

"When did it happen?"

He laughed again. "A fair question. Well, it came about last summer.

You recollect our talk one Sunday in the rain?"

"O yes!" —

"That set me to thinking; and the more I saw of you, – yes, and of Mrs.Armadale, – and the more I heard of you from Mrs. Barclay, the more theconviction forced itself upon my mind, that I was living, and hadalways lived, a fool's life. That was a conclusion easily reached; buthow to become wise was another matter. I resolved to give myself to thestudy till I had found the answer; and that I might do ituninterruptedly, I betook myself to the wilds of Canada, with not muchbaggage beside my gun and my Bible. I hunted and fished; but I studiedmore than I did either. I took time for it too. I was longing to seeyou; but I resolved this subject should be disposed of first. And Igave myself to it, until it was all clear to me. And then I made openprofession of my belief, and took service as one of Christ's declaredservants. That was in Montreal."

"In Montreal!"

"Yes."

"Why did you never say anything about it, then?"

"I am not accustomed to talking on the subject, you know. But, really,I had a reason. I did not want to seem to propitiate your favour by anysuch means; I wished to try my chances with you on my own merits; andthat was also a reason why I made my profession in Montreal. I wantedto do it without delay, it is true; I also wanted to do it quietly. Imean everybody shall know; but I wished you to be the first."

There followed a silence. Things rushed into and over Lois's mind withsuch a sweep and confusion, that she hardly knew what she was thinkingor feeling. All her positions were knocked away; all her assumptionswere found baseless; her defences had been erected against nothing; herfears and her hopes were alike come to nought. That is, bien entendu,her old fears and her old hopes; and amid the ruins of the latter newones were starting, in equally bewildering confusion. Like little greenheads of daffodils pushing up above the frozen ground, and fairblossoms of hepatica opening beneath a concealing mat of dead leaves.Ah, they would blossom freely by and by; now Lois hardly knew wherethey were or what they were.

Seeing her utterly silent and moveless, Mr. Dillwyn did probably thewisest thing he could do, and drove on. For some time the horsestrotted and the bells jingled; and by too swift approaches thatwilderness of lights which marked the city suburb came nearer andnearer. When it was very near and they had almost entered it, he drewin his reins again and the horses tossed their heads and walked.

"Lois, I think it is fair I should have another answer to my questionnow."

"What question?" she asked hurriedly.

"You know, I was so daring as to ask to have the care of you for therest of your natural life – or of mine. What do you say to it?"

Lois said nothing. She could not find words. Words seemed to tumbleover one another in her mind, – or thoughts did.

"What answer are you going to give me?" he asked again, more gravely.

"You know, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois stammeringly, "I never thought, – Inever knew before, – I never had any notion, that – that – that youthought so." —

"Thought so?– about what?"

"About me."

"I have thought so about you for a great while."

Silence again. The horses, being by this time pretty well exercised, needed no restraining, and walked for their own pleasure. Everythingwith Lois seemed to be in a whirl.

"And now it becomes necessary to know what you think about me," Mr.

Dillwyn went on, after that pause.

"I am very glad – " Lois said tremulously.

"Of what?"

"That you are a Christian."

"Yes, but," said he, half laughing, "that is not the immediate matterin hand. What do you think of me in my proposed character as having theownership and the care of you?"

"I have never thought of you so," Lois managed to get out. The wordswere rather faint, heard, however, as Mr. Dillwyn's hand came just thenadjusting and tucking in her fur robes, and his face was thereby nearhers.

"And now you do think of me so? – What do you say to me?"

She could not say anything. Never in her life had Lois been at a lossand wrecked in all self-management before.

"You know, it is necessary to say something, that I may know where Istand. I must either stay or go. Will you send me away? or keep me 'forgood,' as the children say?"

The tone was not without a touch of grave anxiety now, and impatientearnestness, which Lois heard well enough and would have answered; butit seemed as if her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. Mr. Dillwynwaited now for her to speak, keeping the horses at a walk, and bendingdown a little to hear what she would say. One sleigh passed them, thenanother. It became intolerable to Lois.

"I do not want to send you away," she managed finally to say, trembling.

The words, however, were clear and slow-spoken, and Mr. Dillwyn askedno more then. He drove on, and attended to his driving, even went fast; and Lois hardly knew how houses and rocks and vehicles flew past them, till the reins were drawn at Mrs. Wishart's door. Philip whistled; agroom presently appeared from the house and took the horses, and helifted Lois out. As they were going up the steps he asked softly,

"Is that all you are going to say to me?"

"Isn't it enough for to-night?" Lois returned.

"I see you think so," he said, half laughing. "I don't; but, however – Are you going to be alone to-morrow morning, or will you takeanother sleigh ride with me?"

"Mrs. Wishart and Madge are going to Mme. Cisco's matinée."

"At what o'clock?"

"They will leave here at half-past ten."

"Then I will be here before eleven."

The door opened, and with a grip of her hand he turned away.