e earth, with every bone aching from his
cousin's blows; he wished that he could wipe out the memory of the
affront in Richard's blood. Richard would laugh at a challenge; a duel
was not the English method of settling quarrels. "I will punish him in
another way; it is a _vendetta_!" said Hugo to himself, choking down his
passionate, childish sobs. "He is a brute--a great, savage brute; he
does not deserve to live!"

He was too much absorbed in his reflections to notice a footstep on the
grass beside him, and the rustle of a woman's dress. Some one had drawn
near, and was looking pityingly, wonderingly, down upon the slight,
boyish form that still shook and quivered with irrepressible emotion. A
woman's voice sounded in his ear. "Hugo!" it said; "Hugo, what is the
matter?"

With a start he lifted his head, showed a flushed, tear-swollen
countenance for one moment, and then hid it once more in his hands. "Oh,
Angela, Angela!" he cried; and then the hysterical passion mastered him
once more. He could not speak for sobs.

She knelt down beside him and placed one hand soothingly upon his
ruffled, black locks. For a few minutes she also did not speak. She knew
that he could not hear.

The world was not wrong when it called Angela Vivian a beautiful woman,
although superfine critics objected that her features were not perfect,
and that her hair, her eyes, her complexion, were all too colourless for
beauty. But her great charm lay in the harmonious character of her
appearance. To deepen the tint of that soft, pale hair--almost
ash-coloured, with a touch of gold in the heavy coils--to redden her
beautifully-shaped mouth, and her narrow, oval face, to imagine those
sweet, calm, grey eyes of any more definite shade would have been to
make her no longer the Angela Vivian that so many people knew and loved.
But if fault were found with her face, no exception could be taken to
her figure and the grace with which she moved. There, at least, she was
perfect.

Angela Vivian was twenty-three, and still unmarried. It was said that
she had been difficult to please. But her choice was made at last. She
was to be married to Richard Luttrell before the end of the year. They
had been playmates in childhood, and their parents had been old friends.
Angela was now visiting Mrs. Luttrell, who was proud of her son's
choice, and made much of her as a guest at Netherglen.

She spoke to Hugo as a sister might have done.

"What is it, dear?" s