Harold would come by the coach at six in
the evening. Tea was to be ready for him,
and more substantial fare. I had first
smilingly, then gravely, to remonstrate with
my aunt about the over-abundance of eatables
she wanted to provide.

"Gentlemen had such appetites—when
they came off long journeys, especially," she
said.

I put off my black dress that day. Early
in the afternoon aunt and I went up to
make our toilettes. I looked anxiously at
my face in the glass. Country air had done
something for me. The hue of my skin was
freshened, and my cheeks boasted a little
colour. I put on a pretty new dress, the
tint of which suited me. It was not too
bright, too dingy, or too delicate. My brown
hair (I had plenty of it then) I braided very
carefully. I fastened my soft lace collar with
a pretty brooch—not the grand one, but one
of Harold's presents, nevertheless. I had
protected my hands carefully since the first
morning, and the scars of the scratches had
disappeared from them and from my cheek,
and the transparent lace sleeves fell cloudily
and becomingly down over those hands he
admired. How carefully I looked at myself
—scrutinisingly and gravely—till the very
gravity of my poor face provoked me to
laughter. But I thought of Harold—fancied
him—so grand and tall and handsome—
standing beside me, and turned away from
the glass, disconsolately sighing out, "What
can he find in poor little me!"  I gathered
a dark red rose from beneath my window,
and put it in my hair, but without venturing
to look at myself again.

I was warm; for it was a very brilliantly-sunny
afternoon—but a delicious breeze came
in at the open casement; so I sat down there
to read. I had a book Harold had given me
"because every one was talking about it "—a
new poem—in my hand. I had not much
cared to read it, as he had not done so, and I
should not be following where his eyes
and thougths had gone before. I had
had the book a month and had not opened
it; and now I turned over the leaves, carelessly,
at first, but my attention was soon
caught.

I have that book lying by me as I write—
it delights me still. I can read it more aright
now, but not with the interest of feeling of
that time. I had wanted to forget my sickening
expectation for a little while. I was
soon completely absorbed, forgetting even
the giver of that as of all my other pleasures.
Is it not often the way of the world to forget
the giver in his gifts?

Is was not a book to be easily read, understood,
and forgotten. It called out all the
power of my nature. I read on breathlessly,
only, when my eyes were dim, pausing to
look up and out over the wavering land.

My aunt knocked at my door, and then
came in, saying:

"I would not disturb you before, Annie;
but now it is nearly six I thought you could
not know how late it was."

"Indeed I did not," I answered. "It is
so very, very beautiful."

"What is, my love?"

"This book I have been reading—a poem
Harold gave me; we must take it away
with us: he must read it—we will read it
together."

"Then he likes poetry as well as you do?"
asked my aunt.

"Of course," I answered, confidently.

"How nicely you look! I am sure he
will be pleased. But you are so like your
mother! The brow and eyes are hers
exactly, and——"

"You do think I look well?—really, dear
aunt? Better than the little, dusty, dusky
traveller who stood at your door a fortnight
since to-morrow? " I asked, anxiously.

"Yes; you are not like the same creature."

"I am very glad you think I look well."

I picked up the book reverently (I had
dropped it when Aunt Aston startled me),
and put it with things I was to take away
with me; and then we went down-stairs.

I walked up and down the room while
we waited I could not sit still. The rumbling
of wheels reached us in the country
silence, while the coach was a long way off.
But it was at the gate at last. Harold
jumped off almost before it stopped, much to
aunt's alarm, who was peeping shyly out
from behind the curtains. I did not know
if I ran out, or stood still, or what I did; I
only knew that soon I was gathered within
Harold's arms, and then held off at a
little distance and examined. I raised my
eyes inquiringly to his; I was soon sure that
he was satisfied, and glad to cast them down,
because the hot blood would rush blindingly
across my face.

Then he introduced himself to my aunt,
and thanked her so heartily and cordially
that tears sprang to her blue eyes, for having
taken such excellent care, as my appearance
testified to, of me. And when he sat down
she forgot how tall he was, and how afraid of
him she had been, and they chatted away
easily and gaily: and all the while my hand
was clasped so close and tight in his! We
had tea, and then we—Harold and I—went
out into the hay-fields. Aunt ran after us
to the door to beg Harold to take care not to
knock his head as he went out; and he
laughed his honest laugh, and she went
smiling back, and up-stairs into my room, to
make some last arrangements for me. The
hay-fields that night! For neither of us
were there ever such hay-fields again. Oh,
my husband, you were happy then!

Next day we were married. I said
farewell to my good aunt, to pretty Ilton, to
bluff Mr. Swayne, and we went forth—he
and I. For a little while I mused over the