The strong old winter is dead. He has died slowly, painfully, with many a desperate struggle, many a hard fight to reassert his power; but now at last he's safely buried, pushed out of sight by all the soft little armies of green leaves that have risen up in battle against him. Above his grave the sweet, brave young grasses are springing, the myriad flowers are bursting into fuller beauty, the birds, not now in twos or threes, but in countless thousands, are singing melodiously among the as yet half-opened leaves, making all the woods merry with their tender madrigals. The whole land is awake and astir, crying, "Welcome" to the flower-crowned spring, as she flies with winged feet over field, and brook, and upland.

It is the first week in March, a wonderfully soft and lamb-like March even at this early stage of its existence. Archibald has again returned to Chetwoode, strong and well, having been pressed to do so by Lady Chetwoode, who has by this time brought herself, most reluctantly, to believe his presence necessary to Lilian's happiness.

Taffy has also turned up quite unexpectedly, which makes his welcome perhaps a degree more cordial. Indeed, the amount of leave Mr. Musgrave contrives to get, and the scornful manner in which he regards it, raise within the bosoms of his numerous friends feelings of admiration the most intense.

"Now, will you tell me what is the good of giving one a miserable fortnight here, and a contemptible fortnight there?" he asks, pathetically, in tones replete with unlimited disgust. "Why can't they give a fellow a decent three months at once, and let him enjoy himself? it's beastly mean, that's what it is! keeping a man grinding at hard duty morning, noon, and night."

"It is more than that in your case: it is absolutely foolish," retorts Miss Chesney, promptly. "It shows an utter disregard for their own personal comfort. Your colonel can't be half a one; were I he, I should give you six months' leave twice every year, if only to get rid of you."

"With what rapture would I hail your presence in the British army!" replies Mr. Musgrave, totally unabashed.

* * * * * * *

To-day is Tuesday. To-morrow, after long waiting that has worn her to a shadow, Cecilia is to learn her fate. To-morrow the steamer that is bringing to England the man named Arlington is expected to arrive; and Colonel Trant, as nervous and passionately anxious for Cecilia's sake as she can be for her own, has promised to meet it, to go on board, see the man face to face, so as to end all doubt, and telegraph instant word of what he will learn.

Lilian, alone of them all, clings wildly and obstinately to the hope that this Arlington may not be the Arlington; but she is the only one who dares place faith in this barren suggestion.

At The Cottage, like one distracted, Cecilia has locked herself into her own room, and is pacing restlessly up and down the apartment, as though unable to sit, or know quiet, until the dreaded morrow comes.

At Chetwoode they are scarcely less uneasy. An air of impatient expectation pervades the house. The very servants (who, it is needless to say, know all about it, down to the very lightest detail) seem to walk on tiptoe, and wear solemnly the dejected expression they usually reserve for their pew in church.

Lady Chetwoode has fretted herself into one of her bad headaches, and is quite prostrate; lying on her bed, she torments herself, piling the agony ever higher, as she pictures Cyril's increased despair and misery should their worst fears be confirmed,—forgetting that Cyril, being without hope, can no longer fear.

Lilian, unable to work or read, wanders aimlessly through the house, hardly knowing how to hide her growing depression from her cousins, who alone remain quite ignorant of the impending trouble. Mr. Musgrave, indeed, is so utterly unaware of the tragedy going on around him, that he chooses this particular day to be especially lively, not to say larky, and overpowers Lilian with his attentions; which so distracts her that, watching her opportunity, she finally effects her escape through the drawing-room window, and, running swiftly through the plantations, turns in the direction of the wood.

She eludes one cousin, however, only to throw herself into the arms of another. Half-way to The Cottage she meets Archibald coming leisurely toward her.

"Take me for a walk," he says, with humble entreaty; and Lilian, who, as a rule, is kind to every one except her guardian, tells him, after an unflattering pause, he may accompany her to such and such a distance, but no farther.

"I am going to The Cottage," she says.

"To see this Lady of Shalott, this mysterious Mariana in her moated grange?" asks Chesney, lightly.

Odd as it may sound, he has never yet been face to face with Cecilia. Her determined seclusion and her habit of frequenting the parish church in the next village, which is but a short distance from her, has left her a stranger to almost every one in the neighborhood. Archibald is indeed aware that The Cottage owns a tenant, and that her name is Arlington, but nothing more. The fact of her never being named at Chetwoode has prevented his asking any idle questions and thereby making any discoveries.

When they have come to the rising mound that half overlooks The Cottage garden, Lilian comes to a standstill.

"Now you must leave me," she says, imperatively.

"Why? We are quite a day's journey from The Cottage yet. Let me see you to the gate."

"How tiresome you are!" says Miss Chesney; "just like a big baby, only not half so nice: you always want more than you are promised."

As Chesney makes no reply to this sally, she glances at him, and, following the direction of his eyes, sees Cecilia, who has come out for a moment or two to breathe the sweet spring air, walking to and fro among the garden paths. It is a very pale and changed Cecilia upon whom they look.

"Why," exclaims Chesney, in a tone of rapt surprise, "surely that is Miss Duncan!"

"No,"—amazed,—"it is Mrs. Arlington, Sir Guy's tenant."

"True,"—slowly,—"I believe she did marry that fellow afterward. But I never knew her except as Miss Duncan."

"You knew her?"

"Very slightly,"—still with his eyes fixed upon Cecilia, as she paces mournfully up and down in the garden below them, with bent head and slow, languid movements. "Once I spoke to her, but I knew her well by sight; she was, she is, one of the loveliest women I ever saw. But how changed she is! how altered, how white her face appears! or can it be the distance makes me think so? I remember her such a merry girl—almost a child—when she married Arlington."

"Yes? She does not look merry now," says Lilian, the warm tears rising in her eyes: "poor darling, no wonder she looks depressed!"

"Why?"

"Oh," says Lilian, hesitating, "something about her husband, you know."

"You don't mean to say she is wearing sackcloth and the willow, and all that sort of thing, for Arlington all this time?" in a tone of astonishment largely flavored with contempt. "I knew him uncommonly well before he married, and I should think his death would have been a cause for rejoicing to his wife, above all others."

"Ah! that is just it," says Lilian, consumed with a desire to tell: she sinks her voice mysteriously, and sighs a heavy sigh tinctured with melancholy.

"Just so," unsympathetically. "Some women, I believe, are hopeless idiots."

"They are not," indignantly; "Cecilia is not an idiot; she is miserable because he is—alive! Now what do you think?"

"Alive!" incredulously.

"Exactly so," with all the air of a triumphant raconteur. "And when she had believed him dead, too, for so long! is it not hard upon her, poor thing! to have him come to life again so disagreeably without a word of warning? I really think it is quite enough to kill her."

"Well, I never!" says Mr. Chesney, staring at her. It isn't an elegant remark, but it is full of animated surprise, and satisfies Lilian.

"Is it not a tragedy?" she says, growing more and more pitiful every moment. "All was going on well (it doesn't matter what), when suddenly some one wrote to Colonel Trant to say he had seen this odious Mr. Arlington alive and well in Russia, and that he was on his way home. I shall always"—viciously—"hate the man who wrote it: one would think he had nothing else to write about, stupid creature! but is it not shocking for her, poor thing?"

At this, seemingly without rhyme or reason (except a depraved delight in other people's sufferings), Mr. Chesney bursts into a loud enjoyable laugh, and continues it for some seconds. He might perhaps have continued it until now, did not Lilian see fit to wither his mirth in the bud.

"Is it a cause for laughter?" she asks, wrathfully; "but it is just like you! I don't believe you have an atom of feeling. Positively I think you would laugh if auntie, who is almost a mother to you, was dead!"

"No, I should not," declares Archibald, subsiding from amusement to the very lowest depths of sulk: "pardon me for contradicting you, but I should not even smile were Lady Chetwoode dead. She is perhaps the one woman in the world whose death would cause me unutterable sorrow."

"Then why did you laugh just now?"

"Because if you had seen a man lie dead and had attended his funeral, even you might consider it a joke to hear he was 'alive and well.'"

"You saw him dead!"

"Yes, as dead as Julius CÆsar," morosely. "It so happened I knew him uncommonly well years ago: 'birds of a feather,' you know,"—bitterly,—"'flock together.' We flocked for a considerable time. Then I lost sight of him, and rather forgot all about him than otherwise, until I met him again in Vienna, more than two years ago. I saw him stabbed,—I had been dining with him that night,—and helped to carry him home; it seemed a slight affair, and I left him in the hands of a very skillful physician, believing him out of danger. Next morning, when I called, he was dead."

"Archie,"—in a low awe-struck whisper,—"is it all true?"

"Perfectly true."

"You could not by any possibility be mistaken?"

"Not by any."

"Then, Archie," says Lilian, solemnly, "you are a darling!"

"Am I?" grimly. "I thought I was a demon who could laugh at the demise of his best friend."

"Nonsense!" tucking her hand genially beneath his arm; "I only said that out of vexation. Think as little about it as I do. I know for a fact you are not half a bad boy. Come now with me to The Cottage, that I may tell this extraordinary, this delightful story to Cecilia."

"Is Cecilia Miss Duncan?"

"No, Mrs. Arlington. Archie,"—seriously,—"you are quite, utterly sure you know all about it?"

"Do you imagine I dreamed it? Of course I am sure. But if you think I am going down there to endure hysterics, and be made damp with tears, you are much mistaken. I won't go, Lilian; you needn't think it; I—I should be afraid."

"Console yourself; I shan't require your assistance," calmly. "I only want you to stay outside while I break the good news to her, lest she should wish to ask you a question. I only hope, Archie, you are telling me the exact truth,"—severely,—"that you are not drawing on your imagination, and that it was no other man of the same name you saw lying dead?"

"Perhaps it was," replies he, huffily, turning away as they reach the wicket gate.

"Do not stir from where you are now," says she, imperiously: "I may want you at any moment."

So Archibald, who does not dare disobey her commands, strays idly up and down outside the hedge, awaiting his summons. It is rather long in coming, so that his small stock of patience is nearly exhausted when he receives a message begging him to come in-doors.

As he enters the drawing-room, however, he is so struck with compassion at the sight of Cecilia's large, half-frightened eyes turned upon him that he loses all his ill humor and grows full of sympathy. She is very unlike the happy Cecilia of a month ago, still more unlike the calm, dignified Cecilia who first came to Chetwoode. She is pale as the early blossoms that lie here and there in soft wanton luxuriance upon her tables; her whole face is eager and expectant. She is trembling perceptibly from head to foot.

"What is it you would tell me, sir?" she asks, with deep entreaty. It is as though she longs yet fears to believe.

"I would tell you, madam," replies Chesney, respect and pity in his tone, taking and holding the hand she extends to him, while Lilian retains the other and watches her anxiously, "that fears are groundless. A most gross mistake has, I understand, caused you extreme uneasiness. I would have you dismiss this trouble from your mind. I happened to know Jasper Arlington well: I was at Vienna the year he was there; we met often. I witnessed the impromptu duel that caused his death; I saw him stabbed; I myself helped to carry him to his rooms; next morning he was dead. Forgive me, madam, that I speak so brusquely. It is best, I think, to be plain, to mention bare facts."

Here he pauses, and Cecilia's breath comes quickly; involuntarily her fingers close round his; a question she hardly dares to ask trembles on her lips. Archibald reads it in the silent agony of her eyes.

"I saw him dead," he says, softly, and is rewarded by a grateful glance from Lilian.

Cecilia's eyes close; a dry, painful sob comes from between her pallid lips.

"She will faint," cries Lilian, placing her arms round her.

"No, I shall not." By a great effort Cecilia overcomes the insensibility fast creeping over her. "I thank you, sir," she says to Archibald: "your words sound like truth. I would I dared believe them! but I have been so often——" she stops, half choked with emotion. "What must you think me but inhuman?" she says, sobbingly. "All women except me mourn their husband's death; I mourn, in that I fear him living."

"Madam," replies Archibald, scarcely knowing what to say, "I too knew Jasper Arlington; for me, therefore, it would be impossible to judge you harshly in this matter. Were you, or any other living soul, to pretend regret for him, pardon me if I say I should deem you a hypocrite."

"You must believe what he has told you," says Lilian, emphatically: "it admits of no denial. But, to-morrow, at all events, will bring you news from Colonel Trant that will compel you to acknowledge its truth."

"Yes, yes. Oh, that to-morrow was here!" murmurs Cecilia, faintly. And Lilian understands that not until Trant's letter is within her hands will she allow herself to entertain hope.

Silently Lilian embraces her, and she and Archibald return home.

* * * * * * *

At Chetwoode very intense relief and pleasure are felt as Lilian relates her wonderful story. Every one is only too willing to place credence in it. Chesney confesses to some sensations of shame.

"Somehow," he says, "it never occurred to me your tenant might be Jasper Arlington's wife and the pretty Miss Duncan who tore my heart into fritters some years ago. And I knew nothing of all this terrible story about her husband's supposed resuscitation until to-day. It is a 'comedy of errors.' I feel inclined to sink into the ground when I remember how I have walked about here among you all, with full proof of what would have set you all at rest in no time, carefully locked up in my breast. Although innocent, Lady Chetwoode, I feel I ought to apologize."

"I shall go down and make her come up to Chetwoode," says her ladyship, warmly. "Poor girl! it is far too lonely for her to be down there by herself, especially just now when she must be so unstrung. As soon as I hear she has had that letter from George Trant, I shall persuade her to come to us."

The next evening brings a letter from Trant that falls like a little warm seal of certainty upon the good news of yesterday.

"Going down to the landing-place," writes he, "I found the steamer had really arrived, and went on board instantly. With my heart beating to suffocation I walked up to the captain, and asked him if any gentleman named Arlington had come with him. He said, 'Yes, he was here just now,' and looking round, pointed to a tall man bending over some luggage. 'There he is,' he said. I went up to the tall man. I could see he was a good height, and that his hair was black. As I noted this last fact my blood froze in my veins. When I was quite close to him he raised himself, turned, and looked full at me! And once more my blood ran warmly, comfortably. It was not the man I had feared to see. I drew my breath quickly, and to make assurance doubly sure, determined to ask his name.

"'Sir,' I said, bluntly, forgetful of etiquette, 'is your name Arlington?'

"'Sir,' replied he, regarding me with calm surprise, 'it is.' At this moment I confess I lost my head. I became once more eighteen, and impulsive. I grasped his hands; I wrung them affectionately, not to say violently.

"'Then, my dear sir,' I exclaimed, rapturously, 'I owe you a debt of gratitude. I thank you with all my heart. Had you not been born an Arlington, I might now be one of the most miserable men alive; as it is, I am one of the happiest.'

"My new friend stared. Then he gave way to an irrepressible laugh, and shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"'My good fellow,' said he, 'be reasonable. Take yourself back again to the excellent asylum from which you have escaped, and don't make further fuss about it. With your genial disposition you are sure to be caught.'

"At this I thought it better to offer him some slight explanation, which so amused him that he insisted on carrying me off with him to his hotel, where we dined, and where I found him a very excellent fellow indeed."

In this wise runs his letter. Cecilia reads it until each comforting assertion is shrined within her heart and doubt is no longer possible. Then an intense gratitude fills her whole being; her eyes grow dim with tears; clasping her hands earnestly, she falls upon her knees.