"That is well," she answered. A rich colour
struggled into her cheeks, and her
eyes were moist. "In that fortnight among
the Cumberland hills," she went on, after a
pause, "lie embalmed the happiest days of my
childhood. But give me some fuller particulars
of your life since I saw you last, and
tell me all the news about my old friends."

It did not take long to relate all I had to
tell. "Were I a man," she said with a smile
as I concluded, "I know no kind of life, speaking
unambitiously, that would suit me better
than yours. Duties to perform, onerous
indeed, but not without profit to yourself and
others, with a broad margin of leisure to
indulge your literary tastes, and cultivate any
course of study you may choose.

"There is a great want of stability in my
mode of life," she continued. "My aunt is
continually travelling from place to place in
search of health or pleasure. No time to
form friendships or likings of any kind. More
than all, I feel the loss of that sweet round of
domestic duties and pleasures which those
alone who have no home know the want of.

"How strange it is," she resumed after a
time, as she looked slowly round the library,
in which the large tomes loomed heavily
through the gathering darkness, "to find myself
once more in this room, where we played
together in childhood. There is a great
longing in my heart to visit all the places
consecrated to me by those sunny recollections.
But it may not be."

"Is your stay here so short?"

"We proceed on our journey to-morrow,"
she replied. "When I say we," she went on,
as if with some reluctance, "I mean my aunt,
my cousin, Mr. Edward Chinfeather, and
myself. We are going to Scotland for two
months, after which we shall return to London
for the winter."

Her face seemed to darken and change as
she said these words, and the soft light to
fade from her eyes, in the old way that I
remembered so well when she was a child.

"To-night we go to the circus," she said,
"for such is the supreme will and pleasure of
my cousin. But let us talk of something else
—of yourself and your prospects; for, believe
me, I have your interests at heart, and
look forward to your advancement in life
with as much pleasure as though it were that
of my brother."

She stayed about half an hour longer,
talking with me of many things. We said
farewell with affectionate earnestness, hoping
shortly to see each other again.

No sooner was I alone than I set resolutely
to work to analyse the flood of new thoughts
that rushed through my brain. So many new
hopes and fears too; for I now felt, for the
first time, that I loved; and the rapture of
that feeling subdued all others. The old
child-fancy seemed suddenly swept back into
some far anterior period of my life; and
though the same face was still there, it was
that of a child no longer. Only two hours
before, I had been wondering in my dreamy
mood whether I should ever meet any one
whom I could love as I felt I were capable of
loving, but having no regard for Salome in
that light—holding her merely as a sweet
recollection of my youth, as little more than
a beautiful myth. And lo! there was now a
more glorious reality than all my dreams had
ever shadowed forth; and I felt that to love
any other woman had now become for ever
impossible.

But would she love me in return? Was I
worthy of her? Would she not scorn me?
And then that cousin of whom she had
spoken? And a sharp pang of jealousy shot
through me at the thought. But, through all
my musings, the rapture of feeling that I
loved shone like summer sunshine into the
darkest corners of my heart. Suddenly I
remembered that she had said, "We go to the
circus to-night." Unknown to her, could I
not gaze on her there? Stupid, not to have
thought of it before, for the performance had
probably already begun, and every moment
was precious. Quickened by the thought, I
was not long in setting off, partially disguised
in a large old-fashioned cloak that belonged
to the master, and an old broad-brimmed felt
hat that I generally wore when gardening. I
soon arrived at the large canvas booth erected
by one of those nomadic companies of horse-
riders who generally honoured Howthwaite
with their presence for a few evenings every
summer. I paid my money, and entered the
promenade, which I judged to be the best
place for my purpose. I had not been in a
circus for many years, and for a few moments
after my entrance, what with the music, the
plaudits of the crowd, the glare of the gas,
and the vision of a pink-legged young lady
riding at a break-neck pace round the ring, I
felt quite bewildered. As soon as
mademoiselle had finished her daring act, there
was a movement among the spectators, and I
gradually edged my way to a place from
whence I could take in the whole of the box
tier at a glance. I soon singled out Salome
from the rest. She was seated between Mrs.
Chinfeather and a young gentleman, whom I
took to be the cousin she had mentioned to
me. He was quite handsome enough to be
jealous of, that cousin of hers. He took no
apparent interest in the performance, but
dawdled with his watch-guard, and seemed to
be trying, in a languid unconscious way, to
count the number of burners in the large hoop
pendant from the canvas roof, which filled the
office of chandelier. Mrs. Chinfeather was the
same as of yore; unchanged, save that there
was, perhaps, a deeper touch of rouge than
formerly on her cheeks; but on this point I
am far from positive, as it might be the
warmth of the place, or twenty other things,
that gave such a heightened flush to her
complexion. She was so bountiful with her
applause, and dispensed it with such a gracious