sanctuary. There is an arbour under the wall,
in the midst of a bed of lilies. I hid myself
there, and looked out on the lily-cups brimming
with sunset light, on the diving up and down of
the birds, on the little golden clouds transfixed
in the glory of the heavens. Not a soul breathed
within the four high walls but myself, till the
latch of the little green door clicked, and who
should come hieing along the path but Rachel,
her white evening dress tucked to one side, and
a watering-pot in her hand. She had a favourite
corner in this garden, which it was her pleasure
to tend with her own hands. The sun was
down, and the plants were thirsting. Rachel
was kind to all: kind to the daisies and me,
kind to John, kind to her betrothed, Arthur
Noble (I had not failed to pick up the name),
who was coming this evening to surprise her.
When and in what corner would the kindness
end and cruelty begin? Watching through a
rent screen of tangled flowers, the fair shapely
figure flitting and swaying in the after-glory of
the sunset, I wondered about it all. How would
she act when her other lover arrived? Would
she turn her face, in which lived such pathetic
truth, first on one, and then on the other?
Would she for a time give a hand in the dark
to each, lacking courage to fling love for ever
over her shoulder, and declare at once for the
world? Would she honestly dismiss John,
confessing that she had chosen her path? or would
she bravely destroy that which was unholy, and
give her hand to him before the world?
Contemplating this possibility, I felt my heart swell
with something that was not selfishness; and I
built a palace in the air for John.

Having done so, I heard the garden door
click again, and starting, looked, expecting to
see John coming in to take possession of his
palace on the instant. A man came in, but he
was a stranger. He took first one path, and
then another, and glanced about him with eyes
unused to the place. Here, then, was Arthur
Noble, arrived. He passed along the path
below the lily-bed, and I saw him well. He was
a fine-looking fellow, sunburnt, like one who
had seen foreign service, and handsome:
physically handsomer than John, I could see, with
more of the dash of gallantry and air of the
grand gentleman, but with less of that
something I have hinted at before, soul-spirituality—
what shall I call it, my dears, to escape being
smiled at? You have known John Hollingford,
and you will recognise the charm that I mean,
something that—sick, or afflicted, or disfigured,
or aged—must always make him loveable, and
attract the pure of heart to his side.

Well, Arthur Noble was of a different stamp.
How he would have looked out of the sunshine
of prosperity, I do not know; but he seemed
made to be gilt by it from head to foot. He
had a pleasant face, sunny and frank, a high-bred,
masterful air, and an amiable courtly manner.
Physically he had all the fine points of a Saxon
hero, fair hair, blue eyes, powerful frame. Yet
gay, and debonnair, and happy as he looked, I
pitied him a little, going past to find Rachel.
A little, not a great deal, for I judged him
(wrongly, as it afterwards proved), to be one
who would love lightly, and be easily consoled
by a world whose darling he must be.

I saw their meeting, and John's aërial palace
crumbled away into dust. There was no
mistaking Rachel's face, the glow that transfigured
it when she turned by chance and saw the
figure advancing towards her. She sprang to
meet him with hands extended, gown tucked
aside as it was, and visibly flying feet; and he,
striding on, opened his arms to receive her, and
folded them reverently about her, like a true
knight embracing his bride.

"And what about John?" I said, angrily, as
I watched the two walking up and down
between the roses, talking as eagerly and joyously
as if they had just received a charter for
perpetual happiness.

That was a dull evening for some of us at the
hall. Rachel and her betrothed sat apart and
talked. Grace played chess with Mr. Hill, and,
to escape from Captain Tyrrell, I kept close to
Mrs. Hill.

"I am quite in a dilemma, my dear," she
whispered to me. "There is young Hollingford,
who has been coming about the hall so
much, and will be coming about; and then here
is Arthur Noble; and you know, my dear, or
perhaps you do not know, that there has been a
deadly feud between their fathers. They were
once friends; but poor Mr. Hollingford—you
know all about him, and Sir Arthur Noble was
a heavy loser. Sir Arthur is very vindictive, I
must say. I do not think his son is of the same
temper, but it might be unpleasant, their meeting.
Mr. Hill, who is quite bewitched about
young Hollingford, will say, 'Pooh, pooh! let
the lads meet and be friends;' but I am
not at all so sure that there will not be an
awkwardness. I declare I am quite at my wits'
end."

I professed myself unable to give advice on
this subject; and, indeed, I felt that I ought
now to regard myself as a dying person, who
has no further concern with the interests and
people around me. I saw a reason why John
Hollingford and Mr. Noble were not likely to
be friends, even if their fathers had been
brothers. And the little lady's petty grievance
worried me. And all things troubled me, for
in three days I was to leave Hillsbro' for
London with the Tyrrells.