e when she was his wife. And now she was told that they were to be
married almost immediately, that they were to live in the house where
she had been reared, in that familiar land of hills and waters, that
they were to roam about the dales and mountains together, they two, as
man and wife. The whole thing was wonderful, bewildering, impossible
almost.

This was on the first morning after Mr. Hammond's arrival. Maulevrier
had gone off to hunt the Rotha for otters, and was up to his waist in
the water, no doubt, by this time. Hammond was strolling up and down the
terrace in front of the house, looking at the green expanse of
Fairfield, the dark bulk of Seat Sandal, the nearer crests of Helm Crag
and Silver Howe.

'You are to come to her ladyship directly, please,' said Mary, going up
to him.

He took both her hands, drew her nearer to him, smiling down at her.
They had been sitting side by side at the breakfast table half-an-hour
ago, he waiting upon her as she poured out the tea; yet by his tender
greeting and the delight in his face it might have been supposed they
had not met for weeks. Such are the sweet inanities of love.

'What does her ladyship want with me, darling? and why are you
blushing?' he asked.

'I--I think she is going to talk about--our--marriage,' faltered Mary.

'"Why, I will talk to her upon this theme until mine eyelids can no
longer wag,"' quoted Hammond. 'Take me to her, Mary. I hope her ladyship
is growing sensible.'

'She is very kind, very sweet. She has changed so much of late.'

Mary went with him to the door of her ladyship's sitting-room, and there
left him to go in alone. She went to the library--that room over which a
gloomy shadow seemed to have hung ever since that awful winter afternoon
when Mary found Lady Maulevrier lying on the floor in the twilight. But
it was a noble room, and in her studious hours Mary loved to sit here,
walled round with books, and able to consult or dip into as many volumes
as she liked. To-day, however, her mind was not attuned to study. She
sat with a volume of Macaulay open before her: but her thoughts were not
with the author. She was wondering what those two were saying in the
room overhead, and finding all attempts at reading futile, she let her
head sink back upon the cushion of her deep luxurious chair, and sat
with her dreamy eyes fixed on the summer landscape and her thoughts with
her lover.

Lady Maulevrier looked very wan and tired in the