Her heart beat quickly; a hundred
thoughts seemed to whirl confusedly
through her brain. But she stood
immovably steady, with her eyes still turned
toward the green graveyard.

"I–I don't know. I suppose–I should
think not. You ought to be glad to be
well enough to go away."

He drew yet nearer, and pressed the
hand that lay passive in his clasp.

"You think it natural to be glad to leave
Shipley?"

"Very natural."

"You hate this place and this life. I
have seen how uncongenial all your
surroundings are to you. You are like some
bright tropical bird carried away from his
native sunshine, and caged under a leaden
sky. Leave it, and fly away into the
sunshine!"

"That is easily said!"

"You are not angry?" he asked, eagerly,
as she made a move to walk back towards
the house.

"Why should I be angry? But the sun
is sinking fast, and papa will expect me.
We had better return to the house."

"Stay yet an instant! This may be our las
walk together. What would papa do,
if you did not return home at all?"

"Really I do not see the use of discussing so
absurd a hypothesis."

"Not at all absurd. It must happen
some day."

"There is Catherine at the gate, looking
for us. I must go back."

"Ah, Veronica, you are angry with me!"

"No."

"Then it is the shadow of Mrs. Grundy
that has darkened your face. Why does
she come between poor mortals and the
sunshine?"

"Nonsense!"

"I told you that you were afraid of Mrs
. Grundy in your heart."

"And I told you that you were
mistaken."

They had been walking towards the
house, side by side, but apart, and had by
this time reached the little iron wicket
which gave access to the lawn. Here Sir
John paused, and said, softly: "Well, I
have been obedient. I have come home:
or rather, you came, and I followed.
Perhaps there was no great merit in that.
But, Veronica, if you are not angry that I
have dared to call you so, give me a token
of forgiveness."

"I have told you that I am not angry."

"Yes; but you say so with your face
turned away. Not one look? See that
glove that you are pulling off give me
that."

"Pray, Sir John!" murmured Veronica,
hurrying up the gravel path, "I request
that you will not touch my hand. The
servant is there, within sight."

"The glove, then! Fling it down as
a gage of defiance to Mrs. Grundy, if you
refuse to give it as a token of pardon to
me!"

She ran past him quickly, up the steps
and into the house.

As she entered it, a little brown glove
fluttered in the air, and fell at the feet of
Sir John Gale.

    THE SECOND OF SEPTEMBER.

CHRONICLERS and calendar-makers tell us
that the second of September was marked by
the births of St. Justus and St. Margaret, of
William of Roschild and Stephen of Hungary,
and of Howard the philanthropist; by the
deaths of General Moreau, the hapless
Princess of Lamballe, Alice Lisle, and the Lady
Mary Hervey, celebrated for her wit and
beauty at the court of George the Second.
But a much more important and exciting event
marks this date. The GREAT FIRE (it deserves
capital letters) of London, burst out on the
second of September, 1666. There is in existence
a record of this catastrophe, ferreted out no
longer than three years ago, corroborative in
its main features of the older narratives
We all know the leading particulars; how
the fire began at ten o'clock at night, at a
baker's house in Pudding Lane; how it raged
for three days and nights; how it swept
away nearly everything from the Tower to
the Old Bailey; how it destroyed something
like twelve thousand houses, besides churches,
the Cathedral of St. Paul's, the Royal
Exchange, hospitals, public halls, and institutions
in great number. All this we know from the
narratives by Evelyn and other writers. An
interesting confirmation of those narratives has
been recently brought to light. In 1866 Mrs.
Everett Green, while making researches at the
Record Office, discovered a letter which had
been addressed to Viscount Conway in
September, 1666. The name of the writer does
not appear, but internal evidence shows him to
have been some kind of confidential agent to
the viscount, having a certain control over said
viscount's town residence in Queen Street,
Cheapside, The letter gives an account of the
dreadful fire, quite consistent with the
narratives already known. Three passages we will
quote.

Of the panic which seized the citizens
generally, the writer says: "So great was the
general despair, that when the fire was at the
Temple, houses in the Strand adjoining to