She was in this mood one day when he called, and found her in a tÊte-À-tÊte with Lord Randolph. She was dressed À l'Amazone, for her horse was awaiting its lovely mistress below.

"I have arrived mal À propos," he said, after the salutations of meeting were over. "I see your ladyship is going out."

"Come with us," asked Lord Randolph, shaking his hand warmly. "A gallop will chase away the clouds of study from your brow. Lady Dora, did you ever behold so altered a face? Why, man, your studio will be the death of you."

"Not that," he replied, looking gloomily downwards; then, as suddenly raising his head, he seemed to chase away shades and clouds, for the face became calm and smiling.

"Will you take me en croupe?" he asked, addressing Lord Randolph, in answer to his question. "I saw but two horses below—yours and Lady Dora's."

"Oh, no! I will send my groom away, if you will mount his. You must accompany us."

"Lady Dora says nothing; the lady may have too much excellent taste to admire a trio. In my opinion much pleasure is often lost in them, either in music or society."

"How so, Mr. Tremenhere?" she asked coldly.

"Why," he answered, laughing,—"there are the soprano, the contralto, and the mezzo; this last I have ever looked upon as an almost indistinct, useless sort of 'lend-its-aid' to support and show off the other two."

"Then I'll play mezzo," cried Lord Randolph good-humouredly, but with singular, though unconscious truth; "for I have a bad headache, and you two shall sing, and I will listen, occasionally throwing in a note."

"Don't let it be one of discord," cried Tremenhere, in the same tone as before. "We must have harmony; if Lady Dora consent to this, I will gladly take your groom's horse."

Her eyes said more than her lips, as she replied—"We shall be most happy of your company."

"Might I have chosen a character, in which to have handed Lady Dora down, by my humble skill, to posterity, I should have selected her present one. Lady, I never saw you so perfect as in your Amazonian costume; it suits your style far better than Diana even," and Tremenhere bent his eyes in well-schooled admiration upon her; still the effort was not an immense one, for, as an artist, he could not but have admired her perfection of beauty in this dress; then, too, she was grace personified in the management of a spirited horse, which seemed as a part of herself in pride of beauty.

"Why do you object to Diana?" she inquired, fixing her full gaze upon him undauntedly, in all its fire.

"Diana," said Lord Randolph, before the other could reply, "conveys to my mind the idea of a lady over fond of being out at night, not a loving bride or wife," and he laughed significantly at Lady Dora, who turned away towards Tremenhere.

"You have not answered my question," she said.

"Something of Lord Randolph's thought is mine," he replied. "Diana is cold, uncheered, uncheering; she sails onward in her dignity and splendour, surrounded by satellites, uncaring for them all, beautiful, but unloving."

"What do you say to Endymion?" she asked, and her glance crossed his.

"She loved him, and he slept!" was the calm reply.

"That was his fault; 'she could not wake his eye-lids with her kiss,'" fell from her lips.

"Because," answered Tremenhere, "it was too queenly, too cold; had Venus embraced him, he would have started into waking life and love!" Her eye fell beneath his glance.

"The 'Mezzo' must put in a note," said Lord Randolph.

At the word "Mezzo," a gentle, but involuntary laugh escaped from Lady Dora. Tremenhere was grave. He despised while he played with this girl; and, turning to the other, asked in a tone almost too serious and feeling for the occasion, "What is your thought?"

"I think Diana was an arrant, heartless flirt, and certainly deceitful. She assumed to herself a character not deserved—a strictly chaste goddess would never have come down o' night to embrace a shepherd on a hill. I think it is very fortunate he did sleep; had he awakened, he would have had a very different opinion of the lady, and have been fully justified in nodding significantly when her name was mentioned. I only wonder she should have told of herself; for unless she did so—how was this midnight visit known?"

"Oh! she perhaps wanted the cleverness which some possess, of keeping her own counsel," answered Tremenhere.

"Most probably," hazarded Lady Dora, not liking to keep too painful a silence where the subject had become so strangely epigrammatic, "some star betrayed her mistress."

"True!" replied Tremenhere, "as in 'Love's Witnesses,'" and he repeated in a soft, impressive voice—

"'Gad, that's how Madam Diana's escapade became known, I bet my life!" cried Lord Randolph.

She did not reply; she was dreaming over the tone in which "Love! when we last night, embracing," had dropped from his lips, and was lost in that tone's significance, which sent up the harmony to her eyes, with which her softened glance lit on Tremenhere's; and then faded into shade beneath her trembling lashes, consumed, Phoenix-like, by its own fire.

"Then Diana was cruel, too," continued Lord Randolph, hunting down the huntress. "Unsparing with her darts; the wound from which, like wound of hart, never heals!"

"Let her rest," said Lady Dora, fixing a full look of meaning on Tremenhere; "those skilled in venery say, there is a balm for wound of hart."

"Yes, from the animal which has inflicted it," answered Tremenhere.

"Let us have a canter!" cried Lady Dora, starting off down an avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, where the sand deadened the sound of their flying horses' feet. It was a lovely day, and there were groups of equestrians. They had ridden some time, when they met three or four gentlemen together. After bowing en passant, Lord Randolph suddenly stopped—

"That's Gillingham!" he exclaimed; "and riding the very horse he wants me to buy. Lady Dora, may I leave you five minutes, À regret, however, on my own account, under Tremenhere's care. I will rejoin you near the pond."

She merely bowed.

"Beware of the 'Mare au Diable!'" cried Tremenhere to him, as he cantered off. "Have you read George Sand's tale of that name?" asked he of Lady Dora.

"No; that is, I am not certain of having done so—what is the plot?"

"Oh! one full of intense interest; simply told, and of simple persons. It may not interest you."

"I like simplicity," she replied.

"Do you? I am glad to hear that. True feeling is always simple, meek, and confiding."

"But the tale?" she asked, to change his tone. She wanted time to prepare herself for a tÊte-À-tÊte. She began to fear her own sudden impulses.

"Well," he said, "the plot is told in a few words; 'tis the working out of various feelings which is so perfect:—A man loves a girl whom he should not love——

"Why?" and she stilled her heart, and looked calmly at him.

"Because he was rich, and she only a poor, simple, peasant girl. Could I reverse the case, I might find tongue to speak more eloquently on the subject; as it is, I can only tell your ladyship facts."

"And what were these facts?"

"They journeyed together, on horseback—not as we are doing, but in more primitive style, she on a pillion behind him. He was a young widower"—(these words were each distinctly articulated)—"and his boy rode before him, on his knee: 'tis a pretty scene! Night, however, comes on, and they lose their way, and at last find themselves beside the 'Mare au Diable,' noted as fatal to all approaching it; and beside this they pass the night."

"And?" she asked, deeply interested.

"The place was fatal; for Love was the spirit there. Probably," he added, laughing, "as Le Diable is often said to 'Émporte l'amour,' he might have brought him to that spot. Certain it is, there he was, and he prompted two, to know their own hearts who had never known them before."

"I am all impatience for the conclusion."

"I am a bad story-teller; besides, the case is so completely against my position, that I cannot fully, soulfully, enter into it; however, I will satisfy your ladyship's impatience. Hearts will speak at last—theirs did; and he, for her sake, relinquished a rich marriage, station, all—and married the simple girl."

"And was happy?"

"Blest—so the tale has it; and never looked back to the 'Mare au Diable' without a feeling of gratitude. Here we are at the pond, Lady Dora. I wonder where Lord Randolph is!"

"I cannot think love so hastily created," she said, not attending to his other words; "'tis of slower growth."

"Growth! yes; but I tried to give you the author's idea. They, unacknowledged, loved one another a long time, and a word opened their eyes to the truth."

"There are few who make sacrifices for love," she replied, "and such, when made, are seldom appreciated."

"Pardon me, we differ. When truly made, from sincere affection, we bow down in almost adoration of the giver—'tis so sweet to give! The heart feels so light when it has yielded all its store; buoyant and healthful, it only grieves at its own poverty and ungathering powers; for it would fain, like a bee, renew the sweet store, to carry all home to one hive."

"How may we know such a gift would be prized?"

"By reading in a never closed page, by the eyes writ; but some do not love making sacrifices,—they cost dear."

She felt, if this subject were continued in this strain, her courage would fail her. "Not yet!" she thought; "he shall suffer for all I felt the day he quitted me so abruptly."

"Sacrifices are foolish things," she said aloud; "good for boys and girls—men do not value them; they are like water poured on the ground."

"Which brings forth flowers," he added; "but I quite agree with you, they are foolish; but then the mere human heart cannot boast of unerring wisdom. How stupid it is," he said, changing his tone, "to be walking round this mare! This is no god or diable there; let us pursue that avenue before us; we will return hither. Now," he continued, when they were side by side in a quiet alley, "tell me how one may school the heart not to offer itself up in sacrifice?"

"There is no such thing as an appreciated sacrifice," she said proudly, "for a woman; to offer one, there must be a not desecrated altar—man's heart never could be such; they are all deceitful, and profaned—on the like, I should trample as on a reptile!"

"It might turn, and leave an unerring sting."

"How? I do not understand you!"

"In bruising a weed, we may trample on a flower; and our own heart never arise to vigour or life again." As he spoke, he leaned almost over her saddle-bow, and looked in her face.

"I do not fear that, but we were speaking of the thing we dare not love. Such a love I would look upon, in all its phases, till my eye grew tired, and my heart sunk to rest."

"What constitutes that which we dare not love?"

"The thing we should sacrifice too much in loving, and, so doing, lose our own weight in the balance, and—"

"And," he interrupted, "be slighted by the person we fear to love, not being certain of gaining love for love, and gratitude, everlasting gratitude, for the word which raised us from despair to generous hope!"

Her hand trembled on the bridle-rein, his eyes were fixed upon her downcast lid, and her lip was quivering with its effort not to speak. At that moment a close carriage passed them, in which was an invalid, a lady, and child. It was going very slowly—the invalid was Minnie, the child and woman, little Miles and Mary. This latter endeavoured to veil the vision before them by leaning across, but Minnie had seen all; his look, air, their closely-drawn figures, and grasping Mary's hand she became pale as death. Mary had been urging, and she had almost consented to Skaife's telling Tremenhere that she lived!

"Oh, I have done well to refuse!" she cried. "Mere sufferance from him would kill me! Oh, would that I were dead!—would that he were free! Then he might marry her! Poor Miles—poor Miles, he never will be happy! Were I gone, her proud heart would not perhaps reject him at last; I know her well, and how difficult his task must be; is he not deserving all pity? He thought he loved me, to awaken and know another held his heart in bondage! He loves her well! no wonder he looks so sad and ill: poor Miles!" and the generous heart bled more for him than for its own breaking sorrow!

A few moments afterwards, Lady Dora and her two attendant suitors passed the quiet carriage in a hand-canter.