as so unhappy in the thought that
perhaps I should have to live in town until his return. Of course I
could have gone somewhere to live by myself, and could have found some
charming old lady to take care of me, but I am not fond of my own
society, and I can't bear charming old ladies."

"One feels quite sorry for the old ladies," says Fabian, absently.

"I was afraid I should have to put in my two years of waiting for
George, with Auntie Maud, and that would have been terrible. It would
mean seasons, and months at fashionable watering-places, which would be
only town out of town--the same thing all over again. I was so glad when
Uncle Christopher wrote to say he would like me to come here. I have
often wondered since," she says, suddenly--smiling somewhat wistfully,
and flushing a warm crimson,--"whether all of _you_ didn't look upon my
coming with disfavor."

"What put such a thought as that into your head?"

"A very natural one I think. A stranger coming to a household always
makes such a difference; and you had never met me, and you might not
like me, and--. Did any of you resent my coming?"

"No," says Fabian. There is no energy in his reply, yet it is impossible
to doubt that he means exactly what he says. "You must not begin by
thinking unkindly of us," he goes on, gently. "You may believe me when I
say none of us felt anything but pleasure at the idea of your coming."

"Yes? That was very good of you all." She is longing to say, "Yet you
see I kept you from dinner to-night," but after a moment's reflection
leaves it unsaid.

"I hope the country will not disappoint you," he says, after a slight
pause. "It is unwise to begin by expecting too much."

"How can it disappoint?" says Portia, with some intensity. She says
nothing more, but she lifts her lovely face to the starry sky, and puts
out her hands with a faint gesture, fraught with admiration, towards the
heavy flowers, the distant lake, the statues half hidden by the drooping
shrubs, and the moonlight sleeping upon all!

"There is always in the country, the sun, the flowers, and at night, the
moon," she says.

"Yet, the day will come, even for you, when there will be no sun, and
when the moon will refuse to give its light." He speaks peculiarly and
as though his thoughts are wandering far from her to other scenes in
which she holds no part.

"Still, there will always be the flowers," she says, quickly, impressed
by his tone, and with a strange anxi