r other, quaintly incongruous.
Arnold waited upon them, and Fenella talked all the time to the
pale, silent girl at her side. Gradually Ruth overcame her shyness;
it was impossible not to feel grateful to this beautiful, gracious
woman who tried so hard to make her feel at her ease. The time
slipped by pleasantly enough. Then Fenella rose to her feet.

"You must carry Miss Lalonde and her chair down to the very edge of
the lawn, where she can see the river," she told Arnold.
"Afterwards, I am going to take you to see my little rose garden. I
say mine, but it is really my brother's, only it was my idea when he
first took the place. Mr. Weatherley is going down to the
boat-builder's to see some motor-launches--horrible things they are,
but necessary if we stay here for the summer. Would you like some
books or magazines, Miss Lalonde, or do you think you would care to
come with us if we helped you very carefully?"

Ruth shook her head.

"I should like to sit quite close to the river," she said shyly,
"just where you said, and close my eyes. You don't know how
beautiful it is to get the roar of London out of one's ears, and be
able to hear nothing except these soft, summer sounds. It is like a
wonderful rest."

They arranged her comfortably. Mr. Weatherley returned to the house.
Fenella led the way through a little iron gate to a queer miniature
garden, a lawn brilliant with flower-beds, ending in a pergola of
roses. They passed underneath it and all around them the soft,
drooping blossoms filled the whole air with fragrance. At the end
was the river and a wooden seat. She motioned to him to sit by her
side.

"You are not angry with me?" she asked, a little timidly.

"Angry? Why should I be?" he answered. "The afternoon has been
delightful. I can't tell you how grateful I feel."

"All the same," she said, "I think you know that I laid a plot to
bring you here because I was curious about this companion of yours,
for whose sake you refused my invitation. However, you see I am
penitent. Poor girl, how can one help feeling sorry for her! You
forgive me?"

"I forgive you," he answered.

She closed her parasol and leaned back in her corner of the seat.
She seemed to be studying his expression.

"There is something different about you this afternoon," she said.
"I miss a look from your face, something in your tone when you are
talking to me."

He shook his head.

"I am not conscious of any difference."

She lau