It was a day of English summer, and the meadows and trees drowsed in the moist atmosphere; a few white clouds hung lazily in the blue sky; the garden was bright with geraniums and early roses, and the closely cropped privets were in full leaf. Hubert's senses were taken with the beauty of the morning, and there came the thought, so delicious, 'All this is mine.' He noticed the glitter of the greenhouses, and thought the cawing of some young rooks a sweet sound; a great tortoiseshell cat lay basking in the middle of the greensward, whisking its furry tail. Hubert stroked the animal; it arched its back, and rubbed itself against his legs. At that moment a half-bred fox-terrier barked noisily at him; he heard some one calling the dog, and saw a slight black figure hastening down one of the side-walks. Despite the dog's attempts on his legs, he ran forward.

'Emily! Emily!' he called. She stopped, turned, and stood looking at him.

'My dear cousin,' he said. 'I'm sorry about last night. I hope that Mrs. Bentley has told you. I begged of her to do so.'

'Yes; she told me of your kind intentions. I have to thank you.'

They walked on in silence, neither knowing what to say.

'Go away, Dandy!' said Emily, thrusting her black silk parasol at the dog, who had begun an attack on Hubert's trousers. The dog retreated; Hubert laughed.

'I'm afraid he doesn't like me.'

'He'll soon get to know you. Are you fond of animals?'

'I don't know that I am, particularly.'

'Oh!' she said, looking at him reproachfully, 'how can you?' Her eyes seemed to say, 'I never can like you after that.' 'I adore animals,' she said. 'My dear dog—there is nothing in the world I love as I love my Dandy; come here, dear.' The dog came, wagging his tail, putting back his ears, knowing he was going to be caressed. Emily stooped down, took his rough head in her hands, and kissed him. 'Is he not a dear?' she said, looking up; and then she said, 'I hope you won't object to having him in the house;' her face clouded.

'Oh, my dear Emily, how can you ask such a question? I shall never object to anything you desire.' The conversation paused, and they walked some paces in silence. Emily had just begun to speak of her flowers, when they came upon the gardener, who was standing in consternation over the fragments of a broken mowing-machine. Jack—that was the donkey—had been left to himself just for a moment. It was impossible to say what wild freak had taken him; but instead of waiting, as he was expected to wait, stolidly, he had started off on a wild career, regardless of the safety of the machine. At the first bound it had come in contact with a flower-vase, which had been sent in many pieces over the sward; at the second it had met with some stone coping; and at the third it had turned over in complete dissolution, and Jack was free to tear up the turf with his hoofs, until finally his erratic course was stopped by the small boy who was responsible for the animal's behaviour. The arrival of Hubert and Emily saved the small boy from many a cuff and the donkey from a kick or two; and Jack stood amid the ruin he had created, as quiet and as docile a creature as the mind could imagine.

'Oh, you—you wicked Jack! Who would have thought it of you?' said Emily, throwing her arms round the animal's neck. 'And at your age, too! This is my old donkey,' she said, turning her dreamy eyes on Hubert. 'I used to ride him every day until about two years ago. I love my dear old Jack, and would not have him beaten for worlds, although he is so wicked as to break the mowing-machine. Look what you have done to the flower-vase.' The animal shook its long ears.

Hubert and Emily strolled down a long walk, wondering what they should talk about.

'These are really very pretty grounds,' he said at last. 'I am sure I shall enjoy myself immensely here.' The remark appeared to him to be of doubtful taste, and he hastened to add, 'That is to say, if I have completely made it up with my pretty cousin.'

'But you have not seen the place yet,' she said, speaking still with a certain tremor in her voice. 'You haven't even seen the gardens. Come, and I'll show them to you.'

Hubert would have preferred to walk with her through these ornamental swards; and he liked the espalier apple-trees with which the garden was divided better than the glare and heat of the greenhouses into which she took him.

'Do you care for flowers?'

'Not very much.'

'These are all my flowers,' she said, pointing to many rows of flower-pots. 'Those are Julia's. You see I run a line of thread around mine, so that there shall be no mistake. She is not nearly so careful as I am, and it isn't nice to find that the plants you have been tending for weeks have been spoilt by over-watering. I don't say she doesn't love them, but she forgets them.... Just look at those; they are devoured by insects. They want to be taken out and given a thorough cleansing. Even then I doubt if they would come out right,—a plant never forgives you; it is just like a human being.'

'And doesn't a human being ever forgive?'

'Oh, I didn't mean that!' she said, blushing; 'but sometimes I could cry over the poor plants which she neglects. I daresay you will think me very ridiculous, but I do cry sometimes, and sometimes I cannot resist taking them out on the sly, and giving them a thoroughly good syringing,—only you must not tell her; we have agreed not to touch each other's flowers. But I cannot bear to see the poor things dying. How do we know that they do not suffer?'

'I don't think it probable.'

'But we don't know for certain,' she said, fixing her great eyes on him. 'Do we?'

'We know nothing for certain,' he answered; and then he said, 'You and Mrs. Bentley have lived a long time together?'

'No; not very long. About a couple of years. I was about thirteen when I came to Ashwood. I am now eighteen. Mrs. Bentley is a sort of connection. She is very poor—that is why Mr. Burnett asked her to come and live here; besides, as I grew up I wanted a companion. She has been very good to me. We have been very happy together—at least, as happy as one may be; for I don't think that any one is ever very happy. Have you been very happy?'

'I have not always been happy. But tell me more about Mrs. Bentley.'

'There is little more to tell. I naturally love her very much. She nursed me when I was ill—and I'm often ill; she taught me all I know; she cheered me when I was sad—when I thought my heart would break; when everybody else seemed unkind she was kind. Besides, I could not remain here without her.' Emily lowered her eyes, and the conversation seemed to pause.

'I have arranged all that,' Hubert answered hurriedly. 'I spoke to her last night, and she has consented to remain.'

'That is very good of you.' Emily raised her eyes and looked shyly at Hubert; and then, as if doubtful of herself, she said, 'Do you like her? I'm sure you do. Every one does. Do you not think she is very handsome?'

'I think her an exceedingly pleasant woman, and I'm sure we shall all get on very well together.'

'But don't you think her very handsome?'

'Yes; she is a handsome woman.'

Nothing more was said. Emily drew meditatively on the gravel with the point of her parasol. The gardeners looked up from their work.

'I have to go now,' she said, raising her eyes timidly, 'to feed the swans. You would not care to go so far?'

'On the contrary, I should like it, of all things. A walk by the water on a day like this will be quite a treat.'

'Then will you wait a moment? I will go and fetch the bread.' She returned soon after with a small basket; and a large retriever, tied up in the corner of the yard, barked and lugged at his chain. 'He knows where I am going, and is afraid I shall forget him—aren't you, dear old Don? You wouldn't like to miss a walk with your mistress, would you, dear?' The dog bounded and rushed from side to side; it was with difficulty that Emily loosed him. Once free, he galloped down the drive, returning at intervals for a caress and a sniff at the basket which his mistress carried. 'There's nothing there for you, my beautiful Don!'

The drive sloped from the house down to the artificial water, passing under some large elms; and in the twilight of the branches where the sunlight played, and the silence was tremulous with wings, Hubert felt that Emily had forgiven him. She wore the same black dress that he had admired her in the night before; her waist was confined by the same black band; but the chestnut hair seemed more beautiful beneath the black silk sunshade, leaned so gracefully, the black handle held between thumb and forefinger. And the little black figure seemed a part of the beautiful English park, now so green and fragrant in all the flower and sunlight of June, and decorated with a blue summer sky, and white clouds moving lazily over the tops of the trees. And the impression of the beautiful park was enforced by its reflection, which lay, with the mute magic of reflected things, in the still water, stirred only when, with exquisite motion of webbed feet, the swans propelled their freshness to and fro, balancing themselves in the current where they knew the bread must surely fall.

'They are waiting for me. Cannot you see their black eyes turned towards the bridge?' And she threw the bread from the basket, and the beautiful birds unbent their curved necks, devouring it voraciously under the water.

In the larger portion of this artificial lake there were two islands, thickly wooded. In the smaller, which lay behind Emily and Hubert, there was one small island covered with reeds and low bushes, and this was a favourite haunt for the waterfowl, which now came swimming forward, not daring to approach too near the dangerous swans.

'These are my friends,' said Emily. 'They will follow me to the other end, and I shall be able to feed them as we walk along the meadow.'

Don and Dandy bounded through the tall grass; sometimes foolishly giving chase to the birds that rose up out of the golden grasses, barking in mad eagerness—sometimes pursuing a hare into the distant woods. The last chase had led them far, and both dogs returned panting to walk till they recovered breath by their mistress's side; and to satisfy the retriever's affection Emily held one hand to him. Playing gently with his ears, she said—

'Did you ever see much of Mr. Burnett?'

'Not since I was a boy, ten or twelve years ago, when I was at the University. There was absolutely no reason for his doing what he did.'

'Yes; there was,' she said in a strangely decisive tone.

'May I ask——'

'I do not know if I ought to tell you. It would be better not to. You know,' she continued, speaking now with a nervous tremor in her voice, 'that I do not want you to think that I am so very disappointed. I do not know that I am disappointed at all. You have acted so generously, and it will be pleasanter to live here with you than with that old man.'

The conversation fell; but the sweet meadow seemed to induce confidences, and they were so happy in their youth and the sorcery of the sunshine. 'Five years ago I wrote to him,' said Hubert, speaking very slowly, 'asking him to lend me fifty pounds, and he refused. Since then I have not heard from him.' At the end of a long silence, the girl said—

'So long as you know that I am no longer angry with him for having disinherited me, I do not mind telling you the reason. Two months before he died he asked me to marry him, and I refused.'

They walked several yards without speaking.

'Do you not think I was right? I was only eighteen, and he was over sixty.'

'It seems to me quite shocking that he could have even contemplated such a thing.'

'But look at these poor ducks; they have followed us all the way, and I have forgotten to feed them!' Taking out all the bread that remained in the basket, Emily threw it to the ducks that had collected where the dammed-up stream that filled the lake trickled over a wooden sluice. There was a plank by which to cross the deep cutting. Hubert and Emily paused, and stood gazing at the large beech wood that swept over some rising ground. Don had not been seen for some time, and they both shouted to him. Presently a black mass was seen bounding through the flowers, and the panting animal once more ensconced himself by his mistress's side.

'I was very fond of Mr. Burnett,' she said, 'but I could not marry him. I could not marry any man I did not love.'

'And because you refused to marry him, he did not mention you in his will. I never heard of such selfishness before!'

'Men are always selfish,' she said sententiously. 'But it really does not matter; things are just the same; he hasn't succeeded in altering anything—at least, not for the worse. We shall get on very well together.'

The conversation paused. Then Emily went on: 'You won't tell any one I told you? I only told you because I did not want you to think me selfish. I was afraid that after the foolish way I behaved last night you might think I hated you. Indeed, I do not. Perhaps everything has happened for the best. I was very fond of the old man. I gave him my whole heart; no father ever had a daughter more attached; but I could not marry him. And it was the remembrance of my love for him that made me burst out crying. I do not think I realised until I saw you how cruelly I had been treated. But you won't tell any one? You won't tell Mrs. Bentley? She knows, of course; but do not tell her that I told you. I do not care that my feelings should be made a subject of discussion. You promise me?'

'I promise you.'

They had now reached the tennis-lawn. The gong sounded, and Emily said, 'That is lunch, and we shall find Julia waiting for us in the dining-room.' It was as she said. Mrs. Bentley was standing by the sideboard, her basket of keys in her hand; she had not quite finished her housekeeping, and was giving some last instructions to the butler. Hubert noticed that the place at the head of the table was for him, and he sat down a little embarrassed, to carve a chicken. So much home after so many years of homelessness seemed strange.