by hitting the bull's eye as often as herself.
He talked a great deal, and had not opened
Shelley for a fortnight. He was more natural
and less vain; and sometimes even
condescended to laugh so as to be heard,
and to appreciate a jest. But this was very
rare, and always had the appearance of a
condescension, as when men talk to children.
He still hated Violet; and they quarrelled
every day regularly, but were seldom apart.
They hated each other so much that they
could not be happy without bickering.
Although to do Violet justice, it was all on
Launcelot's side. Left to herself, she would
never have said a cross word to him. But
what could she do when he was so impertinent?
Thus they rode, and shot, and played
at chess, and quarrelled, and sulked, and
became reconciled, and quarrelled again;
and Ella, still and calm, looked on with her
soft blue eyes, and often "wondered they
were such children together."

One day, the three found themselves
together on a bench under a fine old purple
beech, which bent down its great branches like
bowers about them. Ella gathered a few of
the most beautiful leaves, and placed them
in her hair. They did not look very well;
her hair was too light; and Launcelot said
so.

"Perhaps they will look better on you,
Miss Tudor," he added, picking a broad and
ruddy leaf, and laying it Bacchante fashion on
her curly, thick black bands. His hand
touched her cheek. He started, and dropped
it suddenly, as if that round fresh face had
been burning iron. Violet blushed deeply,
and felt distressed, and ashamed, and angry.
Trembling, and with a strange difficulty of
breathing, she got up and ran away; saying,
that she was going for her parasol—although
she had it in her hand—and would be back
immediately. But she stayed away a long
time, wondering at cousin Launcelot's
impertinence. When she came back no one was to
be seen. Ella and Launcelot had gone into the
shrubbery to look after a hare that had run
across the path; and Violet sat down on the
bench waiting for them, and very pleased
they had gone. She heard a footstep. It
was Launcelot without his cousin. "Ella
had gone into the house," he said, "not quite
understanding that Miss Tudor was coming
back to the seat,"

Violet instantly rose; a kind of terror was
in her face, and she trembled more than ever.
"I must go and look for her," she said, taking
up her parasol.

"I am sorry. Miss Tudor, that my presence
is so excessively disagreeable to you!"
Launcelot said, moving aside to let her pass.

Violet looked full into his face, in utter
astonishment. "Disagreeable! Your presence
disagreeable to me? Why, cousin Launce,
it is you who hate me!"

"You know the contrary," said Launcelot
hurriedly. "You detest and despise me:
and take no pains to hide your feelings—not
ordinary cousinly pains! I know that I am
full of faults," speaking as if a dam had been
removed, and the waters were rushing over
in a torrent—"but still I am not so bad as
you think me! I have done all I could to
please you since you have been here. I have
altered my former habits. I have adopted
your advice, and followed your example. If
I knew how to make you esteem me, I would
try even more than I have already tried to
succeed. I can endure anything rather than
the humiliating contempt you feel for me!"
Launcelot became suddenly afflicted with a
choking sensation; there was a sense of
fullness in his head, and his limbs shook.
Suddenly tears came into his eyes. Yes,
man as he was, he wept. Violet flung her
arms round his neck; and took his head
between her little hands. She bent her face
till her breath came warm on his forehead,
and spoke a few innocent words which might
have been said to a brother. But they
conjured up a strange world in both. Violet
tried to disengage herself; for it was
Launcelot now who held her. She hid her face;
but he forced her to look up.

For a long time, she besought only to be
released; when suddenly, as if conquered by
something stronger than herself, she flung
herself from him, and darted into the house, in
a state of excitement and tumult.

An agony of reflection succeeded to this
agony of feeling; and Launcelot and Violet
both felt as if they had committed or were
about to commit some fearful sin. Could
Violet betray her friend?. Could she who
had always upheld truth and honour, accept
Ella's confidence only to deprive her of her
lover? It was worse than guilt! Poor
Violet wept the bitterest tears her bright
eyes had ever shed; for she laboured under
a sense of sin that was insupportable. She
dared not look at Ella, but feigned a headache,
and went into her own room to weep.
Launcelot was shocked too; but Launcelot
was a man; and the sense of a half-developed
triumph somewhat deadened his sense of
remorse. A certain dim unravelling of the
mystery of the past was also pleasant. Without
being dishonourable, he was less overcome.

On that dreadful day Launcelot and Violet
spoke no more to each other. They did
not even look at each other. Ella thought
that some new quarrel had burst forth in
her absence, and tried to make it up between
them, in her amiable way. But ineffectually.
Violet rushed away when Launcelot came
near her, and she besought Ella to leave
her alone so pathetically, that the poor girl,
bewildered, only sighed at the dread of being
unable to connect together the two greatest
loves of her life.

The day after, Violet chanced to receive a
letter from her mother, in which that poor
woman, having had an attack of spasms in