soft depths, all the most delightful descriptions
of eyes I had ever read used to come across me,
"les portes de l'amour," "des bluets doux
comme les yeux;" above all, Calderon's tender
refrain,

Sweetest eyes were ever seen.

When she looked at me with those eyes, then
it seemed to me I might "tell her all that was
in my heart," and take her to mine unforbidden.
But the next moment, as if she guessed and
half feared my thought, she turned away slyly,
and her manner altered, and my heart shrunk
back in fear and sorrow.

But at last I felt I could endure this suspense
no longer. I must know the best or the worst.
If she were to be mine, such a home and such
a life as I had planned, and hoped, and dreamt
of ever since I first knew her, should be
prepared; if she were not for me, then I should
leave England, and break away from that and all
other home-ties, and try to bear it like a man
somewhere away from all that should
unman me.

But that May-day, as I started forth and
walked along briskly through the up and down
lanes of the lovely Hertfordshire country; now,
shut in between banks tufted with ferns, overrun
with the exquisite small-leaved ivy, crowned
with lavish May; now, emerging upon sweeps
of hill and dips of valley, crossing commons
ablaze with gorse, traversing woodland paths
where bluebells spread their sheets of azure,
and lingering primroses starred mossy banks;
Heaven! how I remember it all! That May-
day hope seemed as strong and as full of spring
and life and vigour, as my own limbs. I
strode on, thinking of the eyes that would look
up their soft welcome to mine, and of the warm
little hand that I should clasp, and perhaps then
claim as mine, my very own, while life should
last. It seemed to me that such feelings could
not but be prophetic.

"If I find her in the garden," I thougnt, "I
will look upon it as a good omen; I will not
let the time go by, I will seize the opportunity
and speak to her at once."

I got to the cottage and opened the garden
gate. As I stepped inside I saw her, a little
way down the path, in her dainty morning gown
and broad garden hat, filling the basket that
hung on her arm, with flowers, and softly singing
to herself. I stopped on the lawn; I
wanted to come upon her unawares, and test
the effect of my sudden appearance, which
I could not do if the sound of my foot on
the gravel should betray my approach: thus
I got close to her before she knew I was
near. She started violently, and the colour
rushed to her cheek. The slightest thing would
bring it—I have seen her flush at the sudden
rising of a bird from the thicket. The next
moment she smiled and held out her hand.
"Oh, it is you! You startled me. I had no
idea anybody was near," and the sweet eyes
were raised to mine trustingly. "Won't you
come in?"

"Not if I may stay out—unless you are
tired?"

"Oh no, I am never tired of being in the
garden. So you'll help me to gather my
flowers; see, you can reach up to those sprays
of honeysuckle; get some of the best, the
rosiest, for me."

"Ah, how delicious!" she said, inhaling the
fragrance with deep ecstatic inspirations, and
she held up to me the blossom that had just
touched her face. I kissed the flower; I took
the hand that held it; I told her all I had
to tell. She stood still, her head bent so that
the hat hid her face from me, and I knew not
in what spirit she listened till a sigh that was
half a sob checked me.

She looked up with a face so full of pain, of
pity, of perplexity, of deprecating appeal, that
though the hope in my heart sank down, I
almost felt more for the sorrow in her face than
for that in my own soul.

"Forgive me," she said. "I am so grieved.
I ought to have told you. I did not know that
you—that you cared for me that way. I have
been engaged these two years. He is in India,
and coming back in August. Oh, you don't
think I have been coquettish—that I have
been knowingly leading you on to this—do
you?" In her earnestness she laid her hand
on mine, and lifted her face with a tremulous
mouth, and eyes brimful of tears.

If I had died for it, I must have snatched the
consolation the moment offered—the last, the
only one. I drew her on my heart, holding her
close, close; and I stilled the quivering of the
lips with twenty kisses.

When I released her, she turned her back to
me, hid her face in her hands, and sobbed till
her frame shook.

"Loisette, Loisette, forgive me! I could
not help it! I swear I could not help it,
Loisette!"

She shook her head.

"Loisette, think how I love you; think what
I feel in knowing all the hope I had of you is
gone—gone for ever! Loisette, I am going
away, where I can never offend you more.
Think that what I have done was done in parting
with you for the last time—a last farewell,
Loisette."

She tried to speak, but sobs made her inarticulate,
still I knew she was bitterly reproaching
me.

"Yes; I know I have no right to expect
forgiveness. I will go. I won't distress you
further. But we have at least been friends, dear,
and you cannot think of that, and let me go for
ever, without one word."

Still she was silent. I paused and waited;
then I flung up my arms, as a man does who
has lost all; and with a great groan I turned to
leave her. I heard her move, I heard her
attempt to speak, and I looked back. Her face
was still averted, still covered with one hand.
But the other was held out to me, and springing
back I took it reverently, and bent my lips upon
it.