d blissful tranquillity which she had never
observed before, and which she had never thought possible to one who
had appeared to her as he always had. She sat wondering as they
waited for breakfast to be served--a meal which they generally took
together--and baffled herself in vain conjectures. A great change had
certainly come over him. He greeted her with a bright and genial
smile. He had shaken her hand with the warm pressure of a
good-hearted friend. He was sprightly even with the servants. He
noticed the exquisite beauty of the day. He had something to say
about many little trifles. Even in his best moods, during the
journey, he had never been like this. Then he had never been
otherwise than reserved and self-contained; his face had never
altogether lost its cloud of care. Now there was not a vestige of
care to be seen; he was joyous; he was even hilarious; and seemed at
peace with himself and all the world.

What had happened?

This was the question which Hilda incessantly asked herself. It
needed something unusual to change so completely this strong nature,
and transform the sadness which had filled it into peace and joy.
What had happened? What thing, of what kind, would be necessary to
effect such a change? Could it be gratified vengeance? No; the
feeling was too light for that. Was it the news of some sudden
fortune? She did not believe that if Lord Chetwynde heard that he had
inherited millions it would give such joy as this, which would make
itself manifest in all his looks and words and acts and tones. What
would be needed to produce such a change in herself? Would vengeance,
or riches, or honor be sufficient? No. One thing alone could do this.
Were she, by any possibility, ever to gain Lord Chetwynde to herself,
then she felt that she would know the same sweet peace and calm joy
as that which she now read in his face. In that event she thought
that she could look upon her worst enemy with a smile. But in him
what could it mean? Could it be possible that he had any one whose
smile would bring him such peace as this? Once before she suspected
that he loved another. Could it be within the bounds of possibility
that the one whom he loved lived in Florence?

This thought filled her with dismay. And yet, why not? Had he not set
out from England for Italy? Had he not dragged himself out of his
sick-room, almost before he could walk, to pursue his journey? Had he
not broken off almost all intercourse with hers