and, in the meantime, she would remain, with "papa's"
compliments, Mr. Armadale's truly--ELEANOR MILROY.

Who would ever have supposed that the writer of that letter had jumped
for joy when Allan's invitation arrived? Who would ever have suspected
that there was an entry already in Miss Milroy's diary, under that day's
date, to this effect: "The sweetest, dearest letter from _I-know-who_;
I'll never behave unkindly to him again as long as I live?" As for
Allan, he was charmed with the sweet success of his maneuver. Miss
Milroy had accepted his invitation; consequently, Miss Milroy was
not offended with him. It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the
correspondence to his friend when they met at dinner. But there was
something in Midwinter's face and manner (even plain enough for Allan to
see) which warned him to wait a little before he said anything to revive
the painful subject of their visit to the cottage. By common consent
they both avoided all topics connected with Thorpe Ambrose, not even
the visit from Mr. Bashwood, which was to come with the evening, being
referred to by either of them. All through the dinner they drifted
further and further back into the old endless talk of past times about
ships and sailing. When the butler withdrew from his attendance at
table, he came downstairs with a nautical problem on his mind, and asked
his fellow-servants if they any of them knew the relative merits "on a
wind" and "off a wind" of a schooner and a brig.

The two young men had sat longer at table than usual that day. When they
went out into the garden with their cigars, the summer twilight fell
gray and dim on lawn and flower bed, and narrowed round them by slow
degrees the softly fading circle of the distant view. The dew was heavy,
and, after a few minutes in the garden, they agreed to go back to the
drier ground on the drive in front of the house.

They were close to the turning which led into the shrubbery, when there
suddenly glided out on them, from behind the foliage, a softly stepping
black figure--a shadow, moving darkly through the dim evening light.
Midwinter started back at the sight of it, and even the less finely
strung nerves of his friend were shaken for the moment.

"Who the devil are you?" cried Allan.

The figure bared its head in the gray light, and came slowly a step
nearer. Midwinter advanced a step on his side, and looked closer. It was
the man of the timid manners and the mourning garment