slight and small for his age, a little shadow darting
across the sunshine. The half of the terrace lay in a blaze of light,
but all was cool and fresh in the corner where Lady Markland's light
chairs and table were placed in the angle of the balustrade, there half
hidden by a luxuriant climbing rose. Above Lady Markland's head was a
cluster of delicate golden roses, tinged in their hearts with faint
red, in all the wealth of their second bloom. Her black dress, profound
black, without any relief, was the only dark point in the scene. A
little faint colour of recovering health, and perhaps of brightening
life, had come to her face. She was very tranquil, resting as people
rest after a long illness, in a sort of convalescence of the heart.

"You must forgive his familiarity, Mr. Warrender; you are so good to
him, and at his age one is so apt to presume on that."

Warrender had no inclination to waste the few minutes in which he had
her all to himself in any discussion of Geoff. He said hastily, "I have
brought some other books to be looked at,--things which people are
talking of. I don't know if you will care for them, but there is a little
novelty in them, at least. I was in town yesterday----"

"You are very good to me too," she said. "A new book is a wonderful
treat. I thought you must be occupied or absent that we did not see you
here."

Again that past tense, that indication that in his absence---- Warrender
felt his head grow giddy with too much delight. "I was afraid to come
too often, lest you should think me--importunate."

"How so?" she said simply. "You have been like a young brother ever
since---- How could I think you other than kind? The only thing is that
you do too much for me. I ought to be trying to walk alone."

"Why, while I am here?" cried the young man; "asking nothing better,
nothing half so good as to be allowed to do what I can,--which, after
all, is nothing."

She gave a slight glance at him under her eyelids, with a faint dawning
of surprise at the fervour of his tone. "The world which people say is
so hard is really very kind," she said. "I never knew till now how
kind--at least when one has a great evident claim upon its sympathy,--or
pity, should I say? Those who find it otherwise are perhaps those whose
troubles cannot be made public, and yet who expect their
fellow-creatures to divine."

Warrender was sadly cast down to be considered only as the world, a type,
so to speak, of mank