amples through the
same green wood (now, alas, fuller of fallen leaves) where first, at
Herst, he and Molly re-met.

With a temperament as warm but less hopeful than hers, he sees the
imaginary end that lies before him and his beloved. She has forsaken
him, she is the bride of another,--that other is Shadwell. She is happy
with him. This last thought, strange to say, is the unkindest cut of
all.

He has within his hand a stout stick he took from a tree as he walked
along; at this point of the proceeding he breaks it in two and flings
it to one side. Happy! away from him, with perhaps only a jesting
recollection of all the sweet words, the tender thoughts he has
bestowed upon her! The thought is agony; and, if so, what will the
reality be?

At all events he need not witness it. He will throw up his commission,
and go abroad,--that universal refuge for broken hearts; though why we
must intrude our griefs and low spirits and general unpleasantnesses
upon our foreign neighbors is a subject not yet sufficiently canvassed.
It seems so unkind toward our foreign neighbors.

A rather shaky but consequently picturesque bridge stretches across a
little stream that slowly, lovingly babbles through this part of the
wood. Leaning upon its parapet, Luttrell gives himself up a prey to
gloomiest forebodings, and with the utmost industry calls up before him
all the most miserable possibilities. He has reached the verge of
suicide,--in a moment more (in his "mind's eye") he will be over, when
a delicious voice behind him says, demurely:

"May I pass, please?"

It is Molly: such a lovely Molly!--such a naughty unrepentant, winsome
Molly, with the daintiest and widest of straw hats, twined with wild
flowers, thrown somewhat recklessly toward the back of her head.

"I am sorry to disturb you," says this apparition, gazing at him
unflinchingly with big, innocent eyes, "but I do not think there is
room on this bridge for two to pass."

Luttrell instantly draws his tall, slight, handsome figure to its
fullest height, and, without looking at her, literally crushes himself
against the frail railing behind him, lest by any means he should touch
her as she passes. But she seems in no hurry to pass.

"It is my opinion," she says, in a matter-of-fact tone of warning,
"that those wooden railings have seen their best days; and if you try
them much harder you will find, if not a watery grave, at all events an
exceedingly moist coat."

Ther