solute. Only to grasp firmly what
was hers. After all these empty years was she not to have her hour? To
sit still meekly and see it snatched from her by a slip of a soft girl?
A thousand times, no! And she watched her chance. She saw him about
noon sally forth towards the river, with his rod. She had to wait a
little, for Gordy and his bailiff were down there by the tennis lawn, but
they soon moved on. She ran out then to the park gate. Once through that
she felt safe; her husband, she knew, was working in his room; the girl
somewhere invisible; the old governess still at her housekeeping; Mrs.
Doone writing letters. She felt full of hope and courage. This old wild
tangle of a park, that she had not yet seen, was beautiful--a true
trysting-place for fauns and nymphs, with its mossy trees and boulders
and the high bracken. She kept along under the wall in the direction of
the river, but came to no gate, and began to be afraid that she was going
wrong. She could hear the river on the other side, and looked for some
place where she could climb and see exactly where she was. An old
ash-tree tempted her. Scrambling up into its fork, she could just see
over. There was the little river within twenty yards, its clear dark
water running between thick foliage. On its bank lay a huge stone
balanced on another stone still more huge. And with his back to this
stone stood the boy, his rod leaning beside him. And there, on the
ground, her arms resting on her knees, her chin on her hands, that girl
sat looking up. How eager his eyes now--how different from the brooding
eyes of yesterday!

"So, you see, that was all. You might forgive me, Sylvia!"

And to Anna it seemed verily as if those two young faces formed suddenly
but one--the face of youth.

If she had stayed there looking for all time, she could not have had
graven on her heart a vision more indelible. Vision of Spring, of all
that was gone from her for ever! She shrank back out of the fork of the
old ash-tree, and, like a stricken beast, went hurrying, stumbling away,
amongst the stones and bracken. She ran thus perhaps a quarter of a
mile, then threw up her arms, fell down amongst the fern, and lay there
on her face. At first her heart hurt her so that she felt nothing but
that physical pain. If she could have died! But she knew it was nothing
but breathlessness. It left her, and that which took its place she tried
to drive away by pressing her breast