Early summer was already upon the land, flowers were blooming, and the reign of sunshine had begun. The cuckoo haunted the Hall gardens, rabbits basked in the glades, and the woods were alive with singing birds.

A little thing happened which surprised me. A troop of us were riding one day along the moor, and by the outskirts of the road, I, being foremost, espied two figures at a distance among the trees, and recognizing the girls from the farm, I pressed on and came on them unawares, where they were down on their knees, gathering mosses out of the grass. Mopsie was on my neck in a moment, but Jane was a little shy. I had to coax her to be frank.

She thought I must be changed, she said, I stayed away so long. If I cared for them any more, I would have come to see them. Mother was not very well, and John, when at home, was dull. He fretted about something. Did I not know what it was about?

"Whether I come or stay, you must believe in me, Jane," said I; "I am not one of those that change. I will go back with you now and see your mother. Here are the rest of our party coming; we will meet them and tell them what I am going to do."

"That is Miss Leonard," I added, seeing Rachel riding foremost. "Are you not curious to see her?" Jane said "Yes," and walked on beside me, holding my whip.

The sun was in Rachel's face till she passed into the shade right before us. She raised her eyes then and looked at us, started violently, gave her reins a sudden wild pluck; the horse reared, plunged, and flung her. I screamed and sprang to the ground, but Jane stood immovable, looking at Rachel where she lay, staring at her with a face which had changed from glowing red to white. I pushed her aside to reach Rachel. She turned quickly round, and, without a word, began walking rapidly towards home. She passed out of sight without once looking back. It all occurred in a minute.

The other riders came up; Rachel was not injured, only a little bruised and faint. She was too nervous to remount. Our party rode home, and I sat with Rachel on the grass, till a servant came with a pony carriage. The man took our horses, and I drove Rachel home. She cried hysterically all the time whilst we waited in the wood. I did not see any more of Jane, and, of course, I did not pay my proposed visit to her mother. Rachel did not attempt to explain the cause of her accident, and I did not ask her anything about it. I remembered Jane's face, and I puzzled over her strange conduct in silence. It was impossible not to think that she had beheld in Rachel some one whom she had not expected, and was not well pleased to see. Yet this young girl had been a child when she had come to Hillsbro', and she had not known Rachel by name. My head ached distressfully over the puzzle, but I could make nothing of it. Jane was an odd girl; she had conceived a prejudice against Miss Leonard, and had taken a whimsically rude way of showing it. This was all the conclusion I could come to on the subject.

One evening we had a dinner party, and a good many young people being present, we danced a little. I danced more gaily than the rest, for my heart was unusually sore. Grace Tyrrell had told me that day that she purposed leaving the Hall next week, and had pressed me to go with her to London. I thought I had better go, yet I had refused her. I knew I must leave Hillsbro', yet I shrank from the great effort of tearing myself away. Here I had been loved and happy; the trees and the moors knew it; even the strange faces of the country people passing on the roads had seemed to be in my secret, and had played their simple part in my dream. I felt that, once gone, I could never return, and I must first have an explanation with John, and put an end to our engagement. Yet how to seek him for such a purpose? I had kept at so great a distance from him lately that it seemed impossible. I felt that he would be relieved by my absence, and glad of his release, but my own woe pressed upon me. I feared to make a fool of myself, if he was kind as of old when we said good-bye.

So I was dancing with the rest, and Captain Tyrrell was my partner. We were very merry. Grace was playing for us, and looked approvingly over her shoulders. John had been with us at dinner, but I had lost sight of him, and as I did not see Rachel either, my fancy saw them walking in the moonlight without. For it was a warm evening, the windows were open, the stars bright, and people went in and out at their pleasure. The flowers smelt sweetly in the dew, and the nightingales were singing. There was a game of hide-and-seek on the lawn, and when the shrieks and laughter were subsiding, some one began to sing within. Rachel was entertaining the old ladies and gentlemen, and the rovers flocked round the windows to listen. I had sauntered with Captain Tyrrell into a grove to hear a nightingale, and I was weary to death of his company. He was trying to make me promise to go to London. "Oh, let it rest," I said, "we will talk about it to-morrow. Let us be merry to-night. We will play hide-and-seek again!" and I darted suddenly among the trees, and lay close behind a great oak. My squire lost me; I heard him go past plunging through the underwood, and swearing a little. I lay still till he had given up the search and gone towards the house, and then, like the silly lamb in the spelling-book story, I came forth in the moonlight, and if I did not skip and frisk about with delight, I at least enjoyed myself after the only dismal fashion I could command. Captain Tyrrell was to me, in these days, a veritable old man of the sea, I could not get rid of him, and sometimes I thought in my most despairing moods that it was going to be my lot to carry him on my shoulders for the remainder of my life.

I was walking slowly, musing ruefully, when I saw a figure advancing to meet me on the path. I saw at a glance that it was John Hollingford. The time had been when I would have flown gladly to meet him, linked my arm in his, and seized the opportunity for one of our old talks about pleasant fancies. But this was not the friend I had known, nor was I any longer the simple girl who could open her heart to trust, and delight in shining dreams. The pleasant fancies had been proved cheats, the stars had fallen. I no longer looked up at the sky, but down to the ground. For a moment I shrank back, and would have hidden, but then I thought bitterly, what did it matter? Unpleasant words must be said between us, sooner or later. A very few would suffice. Better they were said at once.

"Margery," said John, "people are looking for you, and talking about you. I have come to fetch you to the house. To tell the truth I am glad of the opportunity of saying something which has been long upon my mind. Will you bear with me a few minutes?"

"Yes," I said, "certainly. As long as you please," and I tossed little pieces of twig over my shoulder, and prepared myself to listen. Oh, my dears, how defiant women will be, just for the fear of being pitied.

"You must know very well," he continued, "what I am going to say. I have a right to ask you for an explanation of your conduct for the past few weeks. People are coupling your name with that of Captain Tyrrell, and with good reason. You are so changed that I scarcely see a trace of the Margery I once knew. Child! if you repent of the promise you have given me, tell me now and I will set you free. I remember the circumstances under which that promise was given. You, perhaps, exaggerated your own feelings; you have since renewed your acquaintance with people and ways of life that suit you best. I will try not to blame you. Speak out at once, and do not think of me."

The truthful ring of feeling and reproach in his voice startled my ears, and set my heart struggling for liberty to give an honest response to this appeal. A few simple words would have been enough, but the recollection of all that I knew came back too quickly. The conviction of his insincerity and injustice suddenly bewildered me with anger, keen in proportion to the desolation I had suffered.

"Sir," said I (we said "sir" for politeness in those days, my dear), loftily, coldly, and in utter despair, "I will take you at your word. Let the promise between us be broken from this moment!"

He heaved a great sigh, of relief, I thought, and being near the house we parted with much politeness. Thus we put an end to our engagement. Holy and indestructible I had believed it to be; but then I was an ignorant little fool. People shake hands and say good-bye every day, and never dream of being so mad as to spoil to-morrow with tears. As for me I did not wait for to-morrow. That night was piteous with the rain of my grief. But Grace was at hand to comfort, to counsel, to instruct, which she did with her own peculiar figures of speech.

"You are a brave little thing!" she said. "I am glad you had spirit to act on the first notice to quit. It would have been so much more humiliating to have waited for a forcible ejectment."

And I promised to accompany her to London.