emums--those
flowers that always look born in adverse circumstances--and one or two
hardy roses still lingered. The clematis made a bold show on the porch,
though the north wind had begun to detach its clinging embrace from the
masonry, and make wild work in its tangled masses.

"It must be lovely in summer," said Bluebell, shivering, and feeling a
slightly depressing influence creeping over her. They wandered out by the
banks of the river to a ruined abbey, which always attracted tourists
during the season. It was especially sketchable, and "bits" of it were
carried away in many an artist's portfolio. But it was desolate now, and
flocks of jackdaws came screaming out of holes in the walls.

I am painting from Bluebell's point of view, who could not shake off the
weird feeling that possessed her, to which, perhaps, fatigue, mental and
physical, not a little contributed. Yet when they came in no depression
could withstand the cheery look of the lamp-lit room, with its snowy
cloth laid for dinner, blazing fire, and closely-drawn curtains; and they
both were unmistakably hungry, for the breakfast they had been too
nervous to eat had been their only previous meal.

The carpenter waited. Bluebell felt desperately conscious. His manner
was so benign and protecting, and he coughed so ostentatiously before
entering the room, she was perfectly sure he had guessed that they had
run away that morning. He imparted shreds of local information to Harry
while changing the plates, who answered good-humouredly, but would have
preferred to hear that the whole neighbourhood was wintering in Jericho.
A sociable Skye terrier, who strolled in with the first dish, was rather
a resource to the new-made bride, who found it easier to bend over
Archie, sitting up for bones, than to sustain with imperturbability the
curious if furtive observation of the carpenter.

A day or two after this evening, Harry, coming in from a smoke, saw
Bluebell, with a pleased, intent face, writing, as fast as the pen could
scratch, over some foreign paper.

"Oh, Harry," cried she without looking up, "we must not forget to walk
into the town this afternoon. It is mail-day, I have no stamps."

Dutton's face became suddenly overcast. He jerked the end of his cigar
into the fire, and threw down his hat.

"Whom are you writing to?" he asked.

"To my mother, and everybody," said Bluebell, gleefully. "I am telling
them all about it."

"The devil! My dear child, st