On each side of her rose banks, filled with glorious colourings. Autumn, always so rich in variety, was painting everything with a lavish hand—all the tints were gorgeous, splendid, ripe. She stopped for a moment to gather some berries from the blackberry bushes, that were now laden with ebony fruit, and whose luscious darkness was well thrown out by the pale green clumps of the hart's-tongue ferns that grew beneath them.

Presently she turned the corner and came within sight of the river. It was running very swiftly to-day, being swollen by all the rain that fell last night; and leaves from the trees, yellow and red and green, were swirling down it, in the rays of a mad, hot sun.

She found her own nook at last, and sat down beneath a huge beech-tree, through the branches of which the light played merrily. She flung off her hat, as though glad to feel the air upon her forehead. One could hardly believe summer was gone and autumn well advanced. Far away in the wood on the other side the solitary figure of an old woman picking sticks, with a scarlet kerchief bound around her head, made a spot in the picture.

Agatha sat down and let her head fall into her hands. She knew now—now that she was at last alone—how badly she had been wanting to cry all these long, long hours. The tears ran down her cheeks and through her clasped fingers. She was so alone— so utterly alone!

A gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder. She started violently and looked up, to find Dillwyn looking down at her.

"What is it?" asked he softly.

"Oh, nothing—nothing!" cried she hurriedly. "Nothing, really." She rose quickly to her feet and tried to smile.

"Tell me," said he.

"Well, I have told you," said she, trying to be brave. "It is nothing. Only—sometimes—-" She broke down ignominiously, and covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I am unhappy—unhappy!" she said bitterly.

"My darling!" said the young man. He did not try to take her hands from her face, but he drew her to him, and encircled her with his arms, and pressed her head down on his shoulder, with silent but fervent passion. He held her to him. "Agatha, you know I love you. I told myself I would not speak until I was sure that you loved me, and until I had something to offer you; but now, seeing you like this—if I can help you—-" He stopped and pressed his lips to her head. "You do love me, Agatha?"

Agatha raised herself, and, laying both her hands upon his breast, looked at him. Two tears still lay upon her cheeks, but she was not crying any more. Her face was transfigured—a most heavenly light was in her eyes. Dillwyn looked back at her, wondering—he had not know she was so beautiful. He caught her to him.

"Is it true," said he. "You really love me?"

"And you?"

"What a question! It doesn't deserve an answer. But you shall have it. Yes, I love you with all my heart and soul."

"Ah!" said Agatha. A cloud crept over her face. She looked at him.

"Why didn't you tell me so before?" she said.

He questioned her, and then all the truth came out—Dr. Darkham's proposal, her aunt's acquiescence in it, her horror and fear. Her hand was in his as she told him, and the nervous little fingers tightened on his in the telling. It was such a hateful story, and she had suffered so. But now—-

"The infernal scoundrel!" said Dillwyn at last. She was only half through her story then. "Why, his wife isn't three months dead." After that he heard her patiently to the end.

"I have been so frightened, so miserable," said Agatha. Something of the effect of this speech would have been taken away if a mere outsider had been addressed, as now there was not a touch of misery about her anywhere, but Dillwyn understood her, and drawing her hand to his lips, kissed it warmly.

"You shall never be miserable again if I can help it," said he.

"After all, Agatha, I haven't told you about the stroke of luck that has fallen to me to-day. I'm afraid I should hardly have had the pluck to speak to you at all if it hadn't been for that."

"Oh, Jack!" said she reproachfully.

"Well, I wasn't sure how it was. I could see your aunt was against me, and I don't blame her of course, and—-."

"Then I think you ought. Fancy her wanting to marry me to Dr. Darkham!"

"A man like that! Well, that's bad, certainly."

"Yet you say you cannot blame her."

"How could I blame her? Do you imagine that any aunt would like to marry a girl like you to me?"

"I should; any aunt would be glad to marry any girl to a man like you."

This was delightful from all points, and a good deal of business was done on the head of it.

"But look here," said Dillwyn presently; "I haven't told you about the luck. Old General Montgomery has called me in."

"No!"

"Yes, last night. Attack of the gout. It appears they had known my mother, and had heard that I was enormously clever. I was sorry for him then, poor old man!"

"Nonsense. He heard the truth."

"And it appears he was dissatisfied with Darkham who was with him a week ago. There was evidently something queer about his last visit. The General wouldn't say much—he's a touchy old fellow, you know; but plainly he was offended. Of course, I shall patch it up with him and Darkham. I hate other people's shoes, but for all that it will give me a rise in the neighbourhood—the fact of having been called in, I mean."

Women are seldom magnanimous where a lover is concerned. Agatha now raised a quick protest.

"Why should you do that? If he doesn't like Dr. Darkham—and who could?—why should not you take his place?"

"It is only a momentary row, I expect. Darkham has been his doctor for a long time. But what I want you to know is that it will probably give me a fillip here; and"—he drew her to him —"that will enable me to make a home for you the sooner."

"A home!" said she. The very word was music.

"Our home!" He looked at her and she at him, and their lips met. "For how long have I desired this hour!" said he. "For years!"

"Weeks—only weeks. But—-"

"Very long weeks."

At this they both laughed, and then he went on a little shamefacedly, perhaps—true lovers are always a little shamed at heart before their loved ones,—

"Will you marry me, now, as I am, Agatha? Will you take the risk?"

"What risk?" said she delightfully. "I won't let you talk of risks."

"It's a cottage," said Dillwyn—"a mere cottage."

"I love cottages," said she.

"There are only five rooms altogether."

"What can one want with more?"

"And I'm afraid the kitchen chimney smokes."

"All kitchen chimneys smoke."

"And I don't believe that girl can cook a bit."

"Then here's a girl who can teach her!" She laid her hands lightly on her bosom.

But they didn't stay very long there. Now Dillwyn had her in his arms.

"Do you mean that you are not afraid—that you will come to me —that you are mine really—really?"

Suddenly he put her from him.

"Look here, it's a shame!" said he. "You are sacrificing your life. You had better give me up!" He caught hold of her hands, however, as he said that, and drew her to him and held her fast.

"You had indeed. But if you do, Agatha, there's an end of me."

"Oh, Jack!" said she. She was laughing, but the tears were in her eyes. Quickly she released her hands from his, and then threw them round his neck. "I shan't make an end of you," she said.

....

"Well, that's settled, I suppose," said he. "But I shall always feel I have been selfish towards you. But, however, it's done now. And, Agatha, I wish you could see the house. It's a cottage, you know."

"I know. I've seen it."

"Only the outside. But inside it isn't half bad, and there are two of the rooms very pretty, and it is covered all over with ivy. Mr. Greatorex was very good to me on my coming here, so some of the rooms are decent enough, but"—shyly and tenderly— "hardly good enough for you."

"For me!" Agatha grew softly pink. "It would be heaven!" said she in a low tone. That he should think otherwise, that he should imagine she would not be happy with him anywhere! Was there ever such sweet folly?

"There is quite a nice little room on the south side," Dillwyn was saying, Agatha's cheek pressed against his—"a very pretty room. That would be your drawing-room, and the one opposite, that would be the dining-room. It is very small, certainly; in fact, the word 'dining-room' seems too grand for it."

Here Agatha sighed heavily.

"What is it, darling?" asked he anxiously. "You don't like the prospect? Certainly it is small."

"I'll tell you what it is," said she, looking at him seriously: "it is too good to be true—all of it. It will never be mine. That drawing-room, that dining-room, that whole lovely cottage, will never be mine. It would be too much happiness. You forget Aunt Hilda. She will never give her consent—never!"

"But she is not your aunt really," said he.

"No; but she—Jack, she has been very good to me. But for her" —she paused, and her charming face grew sad—"I might have starved. I cannot forget that."

"I shall not forget it either," said Dillwyn. "And if she ever wants a friend, I'm there. But for all that, Agatha, I've got to think of you too. You are mine now, you know; and one should think first of those that belong to him. And, after all, I expect Mrs. Greatorex is open to reason. Once she knows you hate Darkham, and that you love me—and you do, darling, don't you?"

"Jack! as if you weren't sure—-"

"Well, I am now; and I'll come up to-morrow and tell your aunt all about it."

"Oh, don't!" cried Agatha. "It will be no use—none at all. She —she is bent on this marriage with Dr. Darkham. Don't say a word for awhile."

"And let you be tortured meanwhile? Not likely!" said Dillwyn. "I shall certainly speak to her to-morrow. We must make the way clear at once. I shall come up at four. I can't come earlier because of General Montgomery; but at four."

"You won't see her," said Agatha, with a touch of triumph. "She is going over to the Monteiths' after luncheon to spend a long and happy day with them, and won't be back until ten. I'm glad, do you know. I'm afraid of your speaking to her. I dread it. She will be so annoyed."

"Better get it over," said he. "But even if I can't see Mrs. Greatorex to-morrow, I must see you. She will be away, you say. I can come and see you for all that, can't I?"

"Yes, come at seven. I am afraid I cannot ask you in, however. She would be so angry. But if you will come to the garden—-" She coloured painfully and looked distressed. "I can't even give you coffee.... I can do nothing for you," said she, the tears rising in her eyes.

He smiled. "You can!" said he. "Do you know you haven't kissed me once of your own accord?" He drew her towards him, and she lifted her face.

"Agatha!" said he, in a low tone, "I wonder if you know how I love you?"

"Oh, I know more than that," said she, with a little happy, shy laugh. "I know how I love you!"