dreadfully obtrusive. He had it in his hand on
that bright warm day, and long as our acquaintance
lasted I never saw Mr. Thompson without
it. Later, when our intimacy had progressed
I taxed him with this. "Yes," he said, good
humouredly, "I confess it is my hobby. My
earliest ambition as a boy was to possess an
umbrella, and my greatest happiness as a man
is to go about with one."

Of course we did not speak about his
umbrella on this the first morning we spent
together. Mr. Thompson praised my music, and
looking me full in the face, told me I played
divinely. He said it without preamble, and I
saw he meant it. My aunt was delighted, and
I felt pleased; but, somehow or other, I also felt
that Mr. Thompson treated me like a little girl
and so he did—not merely then, but ever
afterwards. Tiresome man! I  had thought
him old before I saw him, and I could not
make him think me old now that he saw me.

Mr. Thompson did not stay a week with us,
but a month. Oh, that happy month, with long
golden days and delicious evenings, and music
and sweet converse! shall I ever forget it?
If the wakening was bitter, let me remember
that the dream was very sweet.

Mr. Thompson was to leave us next morning,
and we were in the garden together.
I knew by this time how I felt towards him,
and, kind though he was, I doubted if he cared
much for me. And when he said, "Augusta, I
have something to say to you," my heart began
to beat. He used to call me Augusta now and
then, having known me as a child; but never
had he said it so kindly as this evening.

Ah, well! I suppose many women have to
go through the bitterness which came to me
then. Mr. Thompson had met my cousin Jessie
at Mrs. Gray's, proposed to her, and been
accepted. From the moment he mentioned Jessie's
name, I knew my fate. Without seeking it, I
suppose, she had ever stood between me and
every good. She had taken the friendship of
my best friend, the liking of my nearest
relative—I was not really my aunt's niece, only
her late husband's—and now she had forestalled
me in the love of the only man I had ever cared
for. Surely she was not to blame in that, but,
oh, how hard, how very hard, it seemed to me!
The nightingale sang in the trees above us,
pure brilliant stars burned in the sky, the garden
was full of fragrance, and Mr. Thompson went
on pouring Jessie's praises in my ear. She was
so handsome, so bright, so genial, and so
delightfully innocent! And what do you suppose
he told me all this for? Why, because he
wanted me to go and live with them. My
aunt's health had been failing of late, and he
was aware that I knew the worst might soon
come, so he wanted me to be sure of a home.
I burst into tears.

"My dear good child," he cried, warmly, " if
I were not going away, I would not have grieved
you so. You have, I know, a true warm heart.
Your dear aunt may live for years; only, if she
should not, Jessie and I——"

"Pray don't!" I interrupted. I could not
bear it. The more he praised me, the kinder
he was, the more I wept and felt miserable. At
length, at my request, he left me. I grew
calmer after a while, and went in.

"Do play Chopin's march for us, my dear,"
said my aunt. Poor dear aunt! she wanted
me to fascinate him to the last. She little knew
that Jessie, whom she disliked so, had been
beforehand with me there.

I played it again. It was the knell of all my
hopes. A grey twilight filled the room, and
they could not see the tears which flowed down
my cheeks. I played well, they said; and I
believe I did. Something from myself was in the
music that evening, and that something was
very sorrowful. Mr. Thompson came and sat
by me when I had done. The servant brought
in the lights and a letter for my aunt. Whilst
she was reading it, he said, softly:

"You will think over it."

"Pray don't," I entreated.

"But you do not know how much I like
you," he insisted; "and then you will do my
little heedless Jessie good—poor childish
darling! Besides, I have set my heart on
something."

This crowned all. I guessed his meaning;
he had a younger brother for whom he meant
me. He had all but said so this evening in the
garden. "It would do John, who was rather
light, all the good in the world." I could not
bear it. I rose and went up to aunt.

"What news, aunty?" I asked.

"News, indeed!" she replied, amazed.
"There's Jessie going to marry my cousin, Mr.
Norris, old enough to be her father. I wonder
what he will do with the little flirt?"

There was a pause.

Mr. Thompson came forward. I did not
dare to look at him.

"What Jessie is that?" he asked. " Surely
not Miss Raymond's cousin?"

"Yes; the same. Do you know her?"

"I have seen her at Mrs. Gray's."

He spoke very calmly. I suppose he did not
believe it. I pitied him; from my heart I
pitied him.

"Perhaps it is not true, aunt?" I said.

"Not true! why she writes it to me herself
—there's her letter."

I looked at him now. He was pale as death,
but very firm. Neither troubled look nor
quivering lip gave token of the cruel storm within.
Something now called my aunt out of the
room.

"Augusta, may I look at it?" he asked,
glancing towards the letter, which my aunt had
handed to me.

I could not refuse him. I gave him the
letter. He read it through with the same
composure, then looking for his umbrella, which he
would always keep in a corner of the sitting-room,
he said, very calmly:

"I think I shall go and take a walk."

And he went out, and we saw him no more
till the next morning, when he left us.