He turned to Elfrida, his face pale and miserable. He hardly knew what he was saying.

"He is coming—Ambert, I mean. He will ask you to go and see the houses with him."

"Is that all?" Elfrida looked amused.

"He is going to ask you to marry him."

"Is that all!" She laughed now, merrily. Her lovely little face, that was so infantile, yet so strong and so determined beneath all its youth and sweetness, seemed now slightly mocking.

"Don't go with him," entreated Blount passionately. All in a moment the youth of his own face seemed to die from it. He looked strong and earnest. His eyes were lit with a fire she had not thought them capable of. She looked at him strangely for awhile. Then she smiled.

"Why should I not?" she asked gaily. She had quite recovered herself. Ambert was very close now, and she turned and smiled at him—a smile of encouragement.

He came up and gave her the cup she had asked for, not noticing Blount even by a bare nod. He made a point of being rude to Blount. She drank the coffee, and then consented to go with him to the vineries. She rose, her small, graceful figure, slender as an elf's, looking even more fragile than usual in her pale gown, and moved a step or two forward with Ambert at her side.

Blount rose too. The very bitterness of death seemed on him now. She was going—going from him for ever.

At that moment Elfrida turned her graceful neck, and stopped and held out her hand to him. The little trifler was true to her calling.

"Won't you come too, Mr. Blount? Do."

There was actual entreaty in her eyes. Blount would have refused her request but for that look. As a fact, Elfrida felt the proposal from Ambert was imminent, and though she desired it, she wilfully determined to put it off, as women sometimes will. Blount rose, and, regardless of Ambert's insolent air went with her towards the houses.

Miss Firs-Robinson laughed; she was having a right royal revenge.

"Elfrida's good to the poor, too; in fact, she's good to every one—except perhaps"—thoughtfully—"young men."

"To me," said Mrs. Greatorex spitefully, "she appears the very kindest girl I ever knew to young men, and, indeed, to old men, and all men. She seems to have no other thought than for them."

"Just so. I said she was a flirt; but when she's married to Ambert she'll be cured of that."

"When she is," said Mrs. Greatorex with emphasis and a peculiar smile.

Miss Firs-Robinson might have gone on again, adding more fuel to the fire, but a little rush of people out of the tent near them distracted her attention. Dicky Browne was leading, but was hard pressed by Agatha and Mrs. Poynter and a few others.

"What is it, Agatha?" asked Mrs. Greatorex, as the girl reached her.

"Sparks!" gasped Mr. Browne. "He says he wants to take us again."

"So we're flying—flying for our lives," said Dicky. "Stop us at your peril." He looked back. "Oh lawks, here he is!" said he; whereupon they all took to their heels again and disappeared into a bit of wood close to them.

Agatha was last; she turned aside, and, separating herself from the others, ran lightly up a little path that led towards a tangle of ferns and young trees—mere saplings. She knew the place well, and knew it to be solitary. No one would go there to-day, and she wanted to be alone to think. Half an hour ago Dillwyn had been called away to see a poor child in the village whose little hand had been badly scalded. He had passed Agatha when going, and had told her he would be back again in an hour or less. Without him the day seemed dull, and the thought of escaping from every one, of sitting alone in that small retreat until his return, was good to her. She wouldn't confess to herself that the idea of her getting away from Dr. Darkham had its charm too. She clung to the other thought. She could see the road by which Jack—she had grown to think of him as Jack— would return. Indeed, his shortest way would be straight through here. She told herself she was going to sit here and watch for his coming; and out of such telling no shame came to her heart. She loved him, and he loved her. And though he had not spoken, she believed he was waiting for her, until his prospects were brighter, surer. She laughed to herself over that. As if she cared about his prospects! She cared for nothing on earth but him himself—his dear, dear self.

She had gained her shelter now, and stood looking towards the road. Two of the young saplings were quite big boys now, and very tall for their age. They towered over her, at all events. They stood both together, and she stood between them, always with her beautiful face looking towards the road; and she twined her arms round these younglings, and so supported herself. All her thoughts were given to Dillwyn. So engrossed were they, indeed, that she heard no footstep behind her—knew of no approach, until the voice she hated above all others sounded on her ear.

....

She felt she was as pale as death as she turned to confront him.