awing-room.
Little Rosa was standing at the door of Elsworthy's shop, looking out
into the dark street as he passed; and he said, "A lovely night,
Rosa," as he went by. But the night was nothing particular in itself,
only lovely to Mr Wentworth, as embellished with Lucy shining over it,
like a distant star. Perhaps he had never in his life felt so glad
that he was going to see her, so eager for her presence, as that night
which was the beginning of the time when it would be no longer lawful
for him to indulge in her society. He heaved a big sigh as that
thought occurred to him, but it did not diminish the flush of
conscious happiness; and in this mood he went down Grange Lane, with
light resounding steps, to Mr Wodehouse's door.

But Mr Wentworth started with a very strange sensation when the door
was stealthily, noiselessly opened to him before he could ring. He
could not see who it was that called him in the darkness; but he felt
that he had been watched for, and that the door was thrown open very
hurriedly to prevent him from making his usual summons at the bell.
Such an incident was incomprehensible. He went into the dark garden
like a man in a dream, with a horrible vision of Archimage and the
false Una somehow stealing upon his mind, he could not tell how. It
was quite dark inside, for the moon was late of rising that night, and
the faint stars threw no effectual lustre down upon the trees. He had
to grope before him to know where he was going, asking in a troubled
voice, "Who is there? What is the matter?" and falling into more and
more profound bewilderment and uneasiness.

"Hush, hush, oh hush!--Oh, Mr Wentworth, it is I--I want to speak to
you," said an agitated voice beside him. "Come this way--this way; I
don't want any one to hear us." It was Miss Wodehouse who thus pitifully
addressed the amazed Curate. She laid a tremulous hand on his arm, and
drew him deeper into the shadows--into that walk where the limes and
tall lilac-bushes grew so thickly. Here she came to a pause, and the
sound of the terrified panting breath in the silence alarmed him more
and more.

"Is Mr Wodehouse ill? What has happened?" said the astonished young
man. The windows of the house were gleaming hospitably over the dark
garden, without any appearance of gloom--the drawing-room windows
especially, which he knew so well, brightly lighted, one of them open,
and the sound of the piano and Lucy's voice stealing out like a
celestial r