s, and the shrieking of owls.

She takes a last look at the dial, sadly, despairingly. The hands
indicate full fifteen minutes after the hour she had named--going on to
twenty.

She restores the watch to its place, beneath her belt, her demeanour
assuming a sudden change. Some chagrin still, but no sign of sadness.
This is replaced by an air of determination, fixed and stern. The
moon's light, with that of the fire-flies, have both a response in
flashes brighter than either--sparks from the eyes of an angry woman.
For Helen Armstrong is this, now.

Drawing her cloak closer around, she commences moving off from the tree.

She is not got beyond the canopy of its branches, ere her steps are
stayed. A rustling among the dead leaves--a swishing against those that
live--a footstep with tread solid and heavy--the footfall of a man!

A figure is seen approaching; as yet only indistinctly, but surely that
of a man. As surely the man expected?

"He's been detained--no doubt by some good cause," she reflects, her
spite and sadness departing as he draws near.

They are gone, before he can get to her side. But woman-like, she
resolves to make a grace of forgiveness, and begins by upbraiding him.

"So you're here at last. A wonder you condescended coming at all!
There's an old adage `Better late than never.' Perhaps, you think it
befits present time and company? And, perhaps, you may be mistaken.
Indeed you are, so far as I'm concerned. I've been here long enough,
and won't be any longer. Good-night, sir! Good-night!"

Her speech is taunting in tone, and bitter in sense. She intends it to
be both--only in seeming. But to still further impress a lesson on the
lover who has slighted her, she draws closer the mantle, and makes as if
moving away.

Mistaking her pretence for earnest, the man flings himself across her
path--intercepting her. Despite the darkness she can see that his arms
are in the air, and stretched towards her, as if appealingly. The
attitude speaks apology, regret, contrition--everything to make her
relent.

She relents; is ready to fling herself upon his breast, and there lie
lovingly, forgivingly.

But again woman-like, not without a last word of reproach, to make more
esteemed her concession, she says:--

"'Tis cruel thus to have tried me. Charles! Charles! why have you done
it?"

As she utters the interrogatory a cloud comes over her countenance,
quicker than ever shadow over sun.