Bridge were chaste and classic structures. The
Earl, however, died at Naples, in happy
ignorance of the deed that had been done, and his
successor had not thought it worth while to
pull the building down.

When Saxon rose from his seat under the
great oak, it was yet so early that he was
tempted to prolong his walk. So he went
rambling on among the ferns, watching the
rabbits, and thinking of Miss Colonna, till he
found himself, quite suddenly, at the foot of
the little eminence on which the mausoleum
was built.

It so happened that, although he had been
more than ten days at Castletowers, he had
never before strayed into this particular corner
of the park. The phenomenon was consequently
a novelty in his eyes, and he walked round it
wonderingly, contemplating its ugliness from
every side. He then went up and tried the
door, which was painted to look like green
bronze, and studded all over with great
sexagonal bosses. It swung back, however, quite
easily, and Saxon walked in.

The place was so dark, and the day outside
was so brilliant, that for the first few moments
he could see nothing distinctly. At length a
dumpy pillar on a massive square base came
into view in the centre of the building, and
Saxon saw by the inscription carved upon it
(in very indifferent Latin) that the object of all
this costly deformity was a horse. And then he
sat down on the base of the column, and
contemplated the mausoleum from within.

It was, if possible, uglier inside than outside;
that is to say, the resemblance to a lantern was
more perfect. The dumpy column looked
exactly like a gigantic candle, and the very walls
were panelled in granite in a way that suggested
glass to the least imaginative observer. Had
the stonemason possessed but a single grain of
original genius, he would have added a fine bold
handle in solid granite to the outside, and made
the thing complete.

While Saxon was thinking thus, and lazily
criticising the late Earl's Latin, he suddenly
became aware of a lady coming slowly up between
the cypresses.

He thought at first that the lady was Miss
Colonna, and was on the point of stepping out
to meet her; but in almost the same instant he
saw that she was a stranger. She was looking
down as she walked, with her face so bowed
that he could not see her features distinctly;
but her figure was more girlish than Miss
Colonna's, and her step more timid and
hesitating. She seemed almost as if she were
counting the daisies in the grass as she came
along.

Saxon scarcely knew what to do. He had
risen from his seat, and now stood a little way
back in the deep shadow of the mausoleum.
While he was yet hesitating whether to come
forward or remain where he was, the young lady
paused and looked round, as if expecting some
one.

She had no sooner lifted up her face than
Saxon remembered to have seen it before. He
could not for his life tell when or where; but he
was as confident of the fact as if every
circumstance connected with it were fresh in his
memory.

She was very fair of complexion, with soft
brown hair, and large childlike brown eyes—
eyes with just that sort of startled, pathetic
expression about them which one sees in the eyes
of a caged chamois. Saxon remembered even
that look in them—remembered how that image
of the caged chamois had presented itself to him
when he saw them first—and then, all at once,
there flashed upon him the picture of a railway
station, an empty train, and a group of three
persons standing beside the open door of a
second-class carriage.

Yes; he recollected all about it now, even to
the amount he had paid for her fare, and the
fact that the lost ticket had been taken from
Sedgebrook station. Involuntarily, he drew
back still further into the gloom of the mausoleum.
He would not have shown himself, or
have put himself in the way of being thanked,
or paid, for the world.

Then she sighed, as if she were weary or
disappointed, and came a few steps nearer; and
as she continued to advance, Saxon continued
to retreat, till she was nearly at the door of the
mausoleum, and he had got quite round behind
the pillar. It was like a scene upon a stage;
only that in this instance the actors were
improvising their parts, and there were no
spectators to see them.

Just as he was speculating upon what he
should do if she came in, and asking himself
whether it would not be better, even now, to
walk boldly out and risk the chances of
recognition, the young lady decided the question for
him by sitting down on the threshold of the
building.

Saxon was out of his perplexity now. He
was a prisoner, it was true; but his time was
all his own, and he could afford to waste it
in peeping from behind a pillar at the back of a
young lady's bonnet. Besides, there was an air
of adventure about the proceeding that was
quite delightful, as far as it went.

So he kept very quiet, scarcely daring to
breathe for fear of alarming her, and amused
himself by conjecturing what imaginable business
could bring Miss Rivière of Camberwell to this
particular corner of Castletowers Park. Was it
possible, for instance, that the Earl had been
insane enough to have the phenomenon
photographed, and was she about to colour the
photograph on the spot? The idea was too monstrous
to be entertained for a moment. And then the
young lady sighed again—such a deep-drawn,
tremulous, melancholy sigh, that Saxon's heart
ached to hear it.

It was no sigh of mere fatigue. Unlearned
as he was in man and womankind, he knew at
once that such a sigh could only come from a
heart heavily laden. And so he fell to wondering
what her trouble could be, and whether he
could help, in any anonymous way, to lighten