-beds on the lawn--now richly
crowded with late summer blossom. But the vivacity of spirit which had
hitherto enlivened her, was fast ebbing under the pressure of prosaic
realities, and the warm scarlet of the geraniums, glowing most
conspicuously, and mingling with the vivid cold red and green of the
verbenas, the rich depth of the dahlia, and the ripe mellowness of the
calceolaria, backed by the pale hue of a flock of meek sheep feeding in
the open park, close to the other side of the fence, were, to a great
extent, lost upon her eyes. She was thinking that nothing seemed worth
while; that it was possible she might die in a workhouse; and what did
it matter? The petty, vulgar details of servitude that she had just
passed through, her dependence upon the whims of a strange woman, the
necessity of quenching all individuality of character in herself, and
relinquishing her own peculiar tastes to help on the wheel of this alien
establishment, made her sick and sad, and she almost longed to pursue
some free, out-of-doors employment, sleep under trees or a hut, and know
no enemy but winter and cold weather, like shepherds and cowkeepers, and
birds and animals--ay, like the sheep she saw there under her window.
She looked sympathizingly at them for several minutes, imagining their
enjoyment of the rich grass.

'Yes--like those sheep,' she said aloud; and her face reddened with
surprise at a discovery she made that very instant.

The flock consisted of some ninety or a hundred young stock ewes: the
surface of their fleece was as rounded and even as a cushion, and white
as milk. Now she had just observed that on the left buttock of every one
of them were marked in distinct red letters the initials 'E. S.'

'E. S.' could bring to Cytherea's mind only one thought; but that
immediately and for ever--the name of her lover, Edward Springrove.

'O, if it should be--!' She interrupted her words by a resolve. Miss
Aldclyffe's carriage at the same moment made its appearance in the
drive; but Miss Aldclyffe was not her object now. It was to ascertain to
whom the sheep belonged, and to set her surmise at rest one way or the
other. She flew downstairs to Mrs. Morris.

'Whose sheep are those in the park, Mrs. Morris?'

'Farmer Springrove's.'

'What Farmer Springrove is that?' she said quickly.

'Why, surely you know? Your friend, Farmer Springrove, the cider-maker,
and who keeps the Three Tranters Inn; who recommended you to me when