es me? Why, if he loves me, I should think
he would stay! Oh, is it true? is it true? St. George, St. George, do
you love me?" Hurriedly she smoothed her hair while she exclaimed, threw
over her shoulders the scarf of blue and silver hanging across the
mirror, and ran down.

Mr. St. George had that moment left, saying he was absolutely obliged to
depart, but that he hoped his guests would remain the guests of Miss
Changarnier. His luggage was to be sent after him.

"Which way had he gone? towards Blue Bluffs?"

"No, the other way."

Eloise summoned Vane and Hazel to follow her, and, flashing out of the
house, went rapidly down the mazes of the woody avenue, over the fields,
to the nearest place where the road crossed the creek. If Mr. St. George
was on the winding highway, by taking this straight cut she would reach
the creek even before his galloping horse could do so. At length she
paused, stationed Hazel and Vane behind her,--busy enough in themselves,
for Hazel, become happy again, had again become coquette,--and went on
alone. There had been a heavy shower that morning; Eloise stooped and
examined the clayey path that led up from the creek, to see if
footprints had lately been set there, and found nothing. The minutes
dragged away like hours, and when thirty elapsed, she wondered why it
was not growing dark. "He has not come this way!" she exclaimed. "He is
gone! I never shall know where he is!"--and she threw herself down among
the wild, rich growth that half rose and buried her. Gradually, when her
fever of sobs had died away, a sound broke on her ear, the sound of a
slow, steady tramp. Was it the beating of her heart?--or was it Earl St.
George? It drew nearer; she dared not rise and see. She heard the splash
of the feet in the water, in the intense light within her brain could
seem to see the dark water strike up and break in showers of prisms.
Then the feet left it, and came up the bank. Should she dare? If she
delayed--Suddenly that apparition tangled in the blue and silver scarf
rose and confronted Mr. St. George.

The horse knew her, as he swerved, then bent to rub his cheek on her
shoulder; Rounce, who, from stopping to plant his nose deep in every
rose upon his way, had just rushed up breathless, knew her too, and fell
to frolicking about her feet. She stood with both her arms about the
horse's bending neck, with her face half drooping there, and the black,
falling tress curving forward on the cheek.