He glanced at the girl--the fair and innocent creature who had, in his imagination, risen to a throne of imperial height, from whence she could bestow on him death or salvation.

How calm she seemed! She was listening with courteous patience to a long story of Macfarlane's whose Scotch accent rendered it difficult for her to understand.

She was pale, Philip thought, and her eyes were heavy; but she smiled now and then,--such a smile! Even so sweetly might the "kiss-worthy" lips of the Greek Aphrodite part, could that eloquent and matchless marble for once breathe into life.

He looked at her with a sort of fear.

Her hands held his fate.