murely, Mademoiselle Rose was
very fond of roast partridge. On this he made her take the whole bag;
and went home on wings. Jacintha's revelation roused all that was noble
and forgiving in him. His understanding and his heart expanded from that
hour, and his fancy spread its pinions to the sun of love. Ah! generous
Youth, let who will betray thee; let who will sneer at thee; let me,
though young no longer, smile on thee and joy in thee! She he loved was
sad, was poor, was menaced by many ills; then she needed a champion. He
would be her unseen friend, her guardian angel. A hundred wild schemes
whirled in his beating heart and brain. He could not go in-doors,
indeed, no room could contain him: he made for a green lane he knew at
the back of the village, and there he walked up and down for hours.
The sun set, and the night came, and the stars glittered; but still he
walked alone, inspired, exalted, full of generous and loving schemes: of
sweet and tender fancies: a heart on fire; and youth the fuel, and the
flame vestal.

CHAPTER III.

This very day was the anniversary of the baron's death.

The baroness kept her room all the morning, and took no nourishment but
one cup of spurious coffee Rose brought her. Towards evening she came
down-stairs. In the hall she found two chaplets of flowers; they were
always placed there for her on this sad day. She took them in her hand,
and went into the little oratory that was in the park; there she found
two wax candles burning, and two fresh chaplets hung up. Her daughters
had been there before her.

She knelt and prayed many hours for her husband's soul; then she rose
and hung up one chaplet and came slowly away with the other in her hand.
At the gate of the park, Josephine met her with tender anxiety in her
sapphire eyes, and wreathed her arms round her, and whispered, "But you
have your children still."

The baroness kissed her and they came towards the house together, the
baroness leaning gently on her daughter's elbow.

Between the park and the angle of the chateau was a small plot of turf
called at Beaurepaire the Pleasance, a name that had descended
along with other traditions; and in the centre of this Pleasance,
or Pleasaunce, stood a wonderful oak-tree. Its circumference was
thirty-four feet. The baroness came to this ancient tree, and hung her
chaplet on a mutilated limb called the "knights' bough."

The sun was setting tranquil and red; a broad ruby streak l