re when he arrives, in
search of Mrs. Massereene.

She has dressed herself with great care, and very becomingly, being one
of those people who know instantly, by instinct, the exact shade and
style that suits them. Besides which, she has too much good taste and
too much good sense to be a slave to that tyrant, Fashion.

Here and there the fruit-trees are throwing out tender buds, that
glance half shrinkingly upon the world, and show a desire to nestle
again amidst their leaves, full of a regret that they have left so soon
their wiser sisters.

There is a wonderful sweetness in the air,--a freshness
indescribable,--a rare spring perfume. Myriad violets gleam up at her,
white and purple, from the roots of apple-trees, inviting her to gather
them. But she heeds them not: they might as well be stinging-nettles,
for all the notice she bestows upon them. Or is it that the unutterable
hope in her own heart overpowers their sweetness?

All her thoughts are centred on the impending interview. How if she
shall fail after all? What then? Her heart sinks within her, her hands
grow cold with fear. On the instant the blackness of her life in such a
case spreads itself out before her like a map,--the lonely
pilgrimage,--the unlovely journey, without companionship, or warmth, or
pleasant sunshine.

Then she hears the click of the garden gate, and the firm, quick step
of him who comes to her up the hilly path between the strawberry-beds.

Drawing a deep breath, she shrinks within the shelter of a friendly
laurel until he is close to her; then, stepping from her hiding-place,
she advances toward him.

As she does so, as she meets him face to face, all her nervousness, all
her inward trembling, vanishes, and she declares to herself that
victory shall lie with her.

He has grown decidedly thinner. Around his beautiful mouth a line of
sadness has fallen, not to be concealed even by his drooping moustache.
He looks five years older. His blue eyes, too, have lost their
laughter, and are full of a settled melancholy. Altogether, he presents
such an appearance as should make the woman who loves him rejoice,
provided she knows the cause.

When he sees her he stops short and grows extremely pale.

"You here!" he says, in tones of displeased surprise. "I understood
from Mrs. Massereene you were at Herst. Had I known the truth, I should
not have come."

"I knew that; and the lie was mine,--not Letitia's. I made her write it
because I