ring at the blackthorn by the margin of the stream.

APRIL

Miss Verney was so droll at Scarborough and enjoyed herself so much,
that Pauline in her pleasure at the success of what the old maid called
their "jaunt" really was able to put aside for the present her own
perplexities. The sands were empty at this season, and the Spa
unpopulous except for a few residents. The wind blew inland from a
sparkling sea, while Miss Verney, with bonnet all awry, sitting in a
draughty shelter, declared that somehow like this she pictured the
Riviera; and when the weather was too bad even for Miss Verney's azure
dreams, Pauline and she sat cozily among the tropic shells and Berlin
wool of their lodgings. Long letters used to come every day from Guy,
and long letters had to be written by Pauline to him; while perpetually
Miss Verney tinkled on with marine tales that, if no doubt nautically
inaccurate, had nevertheless a fine flavor of salt water.

"I remember I was sitting in the parlor window at Southsea when a
regiment.... I remember a captain in the Royal Marines.... I remember
how anxious my father was that I should have been a boy."

"Oh, dear Miss Verney, you can't remember that."

"Oh yes, he invariably spoke of me as the Midshipman, I remember. I
would then have been about eight years of age.... Pray give my very kind
regards to Mr. Guy and say how well we are both looking, and what a
benefit this fine air is, to be sure, and don't forget our little
expedition to the theater. You must tell Mr. Guy the story of the piece.
He will certainly enjoy hearing about that very nice-mannered convict
who.... Ah dear! how my poor father used to revel in the play."

Miss Verney's conversation scarcely ever stopped, and while Pauline was
writing letters it was always particularly brisk, but she used to enjoy
the accompaniment as she would have enjoyed the twittering of a bird. It
seemed to inspire her letters with the equable gaiety that Guy was so
glad to think was coming back to her. His own letters were invariably
cheerful, and Pauline began to count the days to the time when she would
see him again. Easter had gone by, and the weather was so steadily fine
that it was a pity not to be together. He wrote of primroses awaiting
her footsteps in the forest, of blue dog-violets and cowslips in the
hollows of Wychford down, of all the birds that were now arrived in
England, of the cuckoo's first call, and of the first swallow seen.