was more peace at her heart than had dwelt
there for a long time past.

So one of the women of whom the prodigal
son had thought gently and gratefully that
night, was thinking of him with love that no
unworthiness could kill or lessen, with hope
which no experience could exhaust. And the
other? Well, the other was placing and singing
to her uncle and aunt in the green drawing-
room at the Sycamores, and if she had said
little to Sir Thomas and Lady Boldero
concerning the young artist who was so delighted
with the picture-gallery, and who had despaired
of doing justice to the grand old trees in the
park, it is presumable that, like the parrot of
old renown, she thought the more.

George Dallas slept well that night in the
little country inn, and awoke to a pleasant
consciousness of rest, leisure, and expectation. As
he dressed himself slowly, listening to the queer
mixture of town and country sounds which
arose inside and outside the house, he took up
a similar train of thought to that in which sleep
had interrupted him on the previous night, and
began to form resolutions and to dream dreams.
After he had breakfasted, and perused all the
daily intelligence which found its way to
Amherst, where the population were not
remarkably eager for general information, and the
Illustrated London News was represented by
one copy, taken in by the clergyman's wife, and
circulated among her special friends and
favourites, he went out, and once more took the
direction of the Sycamores.

Should he go into the park, he asked himself,
or would that be too intrusive a proceeding?
Sir Thomas, on his fair niece's showing, was
evidently an elderly gentleman of kindly
impulses, and who could say but that he might
send a message to Mr. Page, the landlord,
inviting him to inform the stranger within his
gates that he might have another look at the
picture-gallery at the Sycamores? Was this a
very wild idea? He did not know. It seemed
to him as likely as not that a jolly kindly man,
disposed to let his fellow-creatures enjoy a taste
of the very abundant good things which
providence had lavished on himself, might do a thing
of the kind. A pompous, purse-proud, egotistical
old fellow, who would regard every man
unpossessed of landed property as a wretched
creature, beneath his notice in all respects,
except that of being made to admire and envy
him as deeply as possible, might also think of
sending such an invitation, but George Dallas
felt quite sure Sir Thomas Boldero was not a
man of that description. Suppose such a
message should come? He had not given any
name at the inn; he wished now he had done
so; he would only take a short walk, and
return to correct the inadvertence. At so early
an hour there would be no likelihood of his
seeing Mrs Carruthers. It was in the afternoon
she had ridden out yesterday, perhaps she
would do the same to-day. At all events, he
would return to the Sycamores on the chance,
at the same hour as that at which he had seen
her yesterday, and try his luck.

The road on which he was walking was one
of the beautiful roads common in the scenery
of England, a road which dipped and undulated,
and wound about and about, making the most
of the natural features of the landscape without
any real sacrifice of the public convenience,
a road shadowed frequently by tall stately trees,
and along one side of which the low park
paling, with a broad belt of plantation beyond,
which formed the boundary of the Sycamores,
stretched for three miles. On the other side,
a well-kept raised pathway ran alongside a
hedge, never wanting in the successive beauties
of wild flowers and "tangle," and which
furnished shelter to numerous birds. The day
was bright and cheerful, and a light breeze
was stirring the budding branches and lending
a sense of exhilaration to the young man who
so rarely looked on the fair face of nature, and
who had unhappily had all his purer tastes and
sympathies so early deadened. They revived
under the influence of the scene and the
softening effect of the adventure which had
befallen him the day before. He stopped
opposite the oaken gates, which had lain open
yesterday, but were closed to-day, and he
rambled on, further away from the town, and
crossing the road, took his way along the park
paling, where the fragrant odour from the
shrubberies added a fresh pleasure to his walk.

He had passed a bend of the road which
swept away from the large gates of the park,
and was peering in at the mossy tufts, studded
with violets and bluebells clustering round the
stems of the young trees in the plantation, when
his eyes lighted on a small gate, a kind of wicket
in the paling, imperfectly secured by a very loose
latch, and from which a straight narrow path,
bordered with trimly-kept rows of ground ivy,
led into a broader road dividing the plantation
from the park.

"A side entrance, of course," said Dallas to
himself, and then, looking across the road, he
saw that just opposite the little gate there was
a wooden stile, by which a path through the
fields, leading, no doubt, into the town of
Amherst, could be attained from the raised
footpath.

"I suppose the land on both sides belongs to
Sir Thomas," thought Dallas, and as he made
a momentary pause, a large black Newfoundland
dog, carrying a basket in his mouth, came
down the narrow path, bumped himself against
the loosely fastened gate, swung it open, and
stopped in the aperture, with a droll air of
having done something particularly clever.
Dallas looked admiringly at the beautiful
creature, who was young, awkward, and
supremely happy, and the next instant he heard
a voice speaking from the top of the straight
walk.

"Here, Cæsar," it said; "come here, sir;
who told you I was going that way?"

Cæsar tossed up his head, somewhat to the
detriment of the basket, and lolloped about
with his big black legs, but did not retrace his
steps, and the next moment Miss Carruthers
appeared. A few yards only divided her from