many hour's innocent pleasure for her.

But what harm can come? she asks herself. The country is quiet enough
now to all appearance, though more than once, in the dusk, she has
heard the shrill signal whistle pealing from hill to hill or dying away
over the melancholy bog.

Of Power Magill she sees but little. He is now cold and absent, and so
unlike himself that it is more a pain than a pleasure to be with him.

Brian Beresford she does not see at all. He has written to her father
more than once since his abrupt departure, but she has not even seen
his letters.

The squire blames her openly for snubbing "as decent a fellow as ever
stepped in shoe-leather," and Launce stings her with covert hints to
the same effect. It is all very miserable, but the girl bears it
bravely. She must suffer, but she need make no sign. Even Launce's keen
eyes are deceived at last, and he tells Belle Delorme that they have
been on the wrong scent altogether.

"Honor never cared a button for the fellow--she never cared for any one
but Power Magill, and never will, and that's the truth! So you see what
a faithful family you are marrying into, my dear!"

But Belle only shakes her pretty head.

"She takes it a deal too easy to please me. I'd rather she would fret a
bit. Sure it would only be natural! But the loss of a man like that out
of a dull country house is something worth fretting about."

"You don't know Honor," Launce answers oracularly. "She's not the girl
to lose her heart in a fortnight or three weeks' time to the best man
breathing."

"I'm not saying a word about her heart, Launce; but I do say he took a
mighty strong hold on her fancy."

"You think that she loves him, then?"

"I think she would if he'd give her the chance," the girl answers,
smiling.

"What a queer little creature you are!" her lover says, looking at her
with amused yet wondering eyes. "How on earth did you find it all out?
I'll vow Honor never spoke a word to you about it."

"How do I know that the sun is shining or that there is clover in that
meadow? Haven't I my senses like other people?"

So they pass on their way, laughing and happy; and the man coming out
from the shelter of the larch-wood, which here borders the high-road,
looks after them with a frown, and a word that is certainly not a
blessing on his bearded lips.

"It's not your fault," he says to himself bitterly, as he watches the
two sauntering along in the yellow sunlight, "that s