It was Tuesday afternoon, and the Countess of Meltoun was at home to the world—that is to say, her world. The usual throng of men of fashion, guardsmen, literary men, and budding politicians were bending over the chairs of their feminine acquaintances, or standing about in little groups talking amongst themselves. The clatter of teacups was mingled with the soft hum of voices; the pleasantly shaded room was heavy with the perfume of many flowers. People said that Lady Meltoun was the only woman in London who knew how to keep her rooms cool. It was hard to believe that outside the streets and pavements were hot with the afternoon sun.

Helen Thurwell, who had come late with her aunt, was sitting on a low couch near one of the windows. By her side was Sir Allan Beaumerville, and directly in front of her the Earl of Meltoun, with a teacup in his hand, was telling her stories of his college days with her father. There had been a great change in her during the last six months. Looking closely into her face, it seemed as though she had felt the touch of a deep sorrow—a sorrow which had left all its refining influences upon her without any of the ravages of acute grief. Those few minutes in the pine grove by the sea had left their indelible mark upon her life, and it was only the stimulating memory of his own words to her concerning the weakness of idle yielding to regret, and the abstract beauty of sorrow which had been her salvation. They had come back to her in the time of her suffering fresh and glowing with truth; she had found a peculiar comfort in them, and they had become her religion. Thus she had set herself to conquer grief in the highest possible manner—not by steeping herself in false excitement, or rushing away for a change of scene, but by a deliberate series of intellectual and artistic abstractions, out of which she had come, still in a manner sorrowful, but with all her higher perceptions quickened and strengthened until the consciousness of their evolution, gradually growing within her, gave a new power and a new sweetness to her life.

And of this victory she showed some traces in her face, which had indeed lost none of its physical beauty, but which had now gained a new strength and a new sweetness. She was more admired than ever, but there were men who called her difficult—even a little fastidious, and others who found her very hard to get on with. The great artist who had just taken Sir Allan Beaumerville's place by her side was not one of these.

"I am so glad that you are here to-day, Miss Thurwell," he said, holding her grey-gloved hand in his for a moment. "I have been looking for you everywhere."

"That is very nice of you," she answered, smiling up at him.

"Ah! but I didn't mean only for my own sake. I know that you like meeting interesting people, and to-day there is an opportunity for you."

"Really! and who is it, Mr. Carlyon? How good of you to think of me!"

"You remember telling me how much you admire Maddison's work."

"Why, yes! But he is not here, surely?" she exclaimed. "It cannot be he!"

Mr. Carlyon smiled at her sudden enthusiasm. After all, this woman had fire. She was too much of the artist to be without it.

"He is not here now, but he will be. I could not believe it myself at first, for I know that he is a perfect recluse. But I have just asked Lady Meltoun, and there is no doubt about it. It seems that they came across him in a lonely part of Spain, and he saved the life of Lady Meltoun's only child—a little boy. It is quite a romantic story. He promised to come and seem them directly he returned to England, and he is expected here to-day."

"I shall like to see him very much," she said thoughtfully. "Lately I have been reading him a great deal. It is strange, but the tone of his writings seems always to remind me of some one I once knew."

"There is no one of to-day who writes such prose," the artist answered. "To me, his work seems to have reached that exquisite blending of matter and form which is the essence of all true art."

"All his ideas of culture and the inner life are so simple and yet so beautiful."

"And the language with which he clothes them is divine. His work appeals everywhere to the purest and most artistic side of our emotional natures; and it is always on the same level. It has only one fault—there is so little of it."

"Do you know him?" she asked, deeply interested.

"I do. I met him in Pisa some years ago, and, although he is a strangely reserved man, we became almost intimate. I am looking forward to introducing him to you."

"I shall like it very much," she answered simply.

"Who is the fortunate individual to be so highly favored?" asked a pleasant voice close to her side.

"You have returned, then, Sir Allan?" she said, looking up at him with a smile. "Have you heard the news? Do you know who is expected?"

He shook his head.

"I have heard nothing," he said. "If I am to have a sensation, it will be you who will impart it to me. Don't tell me all at once. I like expectancy."

She laughed.

"What an epicure you are, Sir Allan! Come, prepare for something very delightful, and I will tell you."

"Is it the prince?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"The Mikado in disguise? The Khedive incognito? Mr. Gladstone?"

She shook her head again.

"The sensation will be more delightful than you imagine, evidently. There have been many Khedives, and many Mikados, but there can never be another Bernard Maddison."

A disturbed shade seemed to fall upon the baronet's face. She followed his eyes, riveted upon the door. The hum of conversation had suddenly ceased, and every one was looking in the same direction. On the threshold stood a tall, gaunt man, gazing in upon the scene before him with an expression of distinct aversion, mingled with indifference. He was dressed just like the other men, in a long frock coat, and he had a white gardenia in his buttonhole. But there was something about him distinct and noticeable—something in the quiet easy manner with which he at last moved forward to greet his hostess, which seemed to thrill her through and through with a sense of sweet familiarity. And then she caught a turn of his head as he stooped down over Lady Meltoun's hand, and a great wave of bewilderment, mingled with an acute throbbing joy, swept in upon her. This man, whom every one was gazing at with such eager interest, was her father's tenant, Mr. Bernard Brown.