“I can not get that girl’s face out of my head,” John Temple thought more than once, as he walked back to the Hall. Her beauty had indeed a wonderful charm for him. He had seen and known many pretty women, but to his mind none so fair and sweet as the Mayflower. And he liked to think of her by this name.

“She is just like a flower,” he told himself. “Ah! that such a face should ever fade!”

This idea made him more thoughtful. He began to muse on the brief tenure of earthly things. And as he approached the stately house that in all probability would one day be his, he was thinking thus still.

“I may never come here,” he thought, looking at the old Hall, with the summer sunshine falling on its gray walls; “never, nor child of mine.”

A shadow passed over his face; he struck impatiently with his walking stick at a tall thistle growing by the wayside, and there was a cloud still on his brow as he entered the hall, and went up the broad staircase that led to the bedroom appropriated to his use.

As he passed down one of the corridors, a tall lady in black suddenly opened one of the doors and appeared before him. She was very pale, and her dark eyes were gleaming as though she were laboring under strong mental excitement.

She looked at John Temple, and then came out on the corridor and confronted him.

“So,” she said, “you have come to take my boy’s place?”

Then John knew at once who she was. This was his uncle’s wife, the bereaved mother, who had lost her only child. He bowed low, and a look of pity came into his gray eyes.

“I have felt very much,” he said, “for your great grief.”

“It has benefited you, at any rate,” she answered, bitterly.

“I can not feel it a benefit at such a cost.”

She looked at him keenly as he said this, and then her faced softened.

“You can not tell what he was to me,” she murmured in a broken voice; “my only one, my only one!”

A sudden passion of tears here came to her relief. Her bosom heaved and her whole form was convulsed, and John Temple naturally felt exceedingly disconcerted. He tried to say some consoling words; he endeavored to take one of her trembling hands. But the sound of her sobs soon attracted the attention of someone within the bedroom from which she had come out. A respectable maid appeared and endeavored to persuade her to return.

“Oh, madam! do not give way so,” she said; “I was sure it was a pity you should see—this gentleman so soon. But she would see you, sir,” she added, looking at John Temple.

“If my presence distresses you,” said John, courteously, looking pityingly at the weeping woman, “I shall leave the Hall at once.”

“What matter is it, what matter is it!” moaned Mrs. Temple; “nothing matters to me now!”

With this she turned away and went back into the bedroom, and the maid hastily closed the door after her, and John saw her no more. But the incident affected him; her grief was evidently so deep and heartrending; her bitter words to him only the natural outpouring of her troubled heart.

“Poor woman,” thought John, and he said nothing to his uncle of this meeting when they dined together in the evening.

The squire again spoke to John of the property and his tenants.

“I have improved some of the farm holdings very much during the last few years,” he said; “at Woodside Farm especially the whole of the outbuildings have been renewed.”

“Ah,” said John, interested, “at Woodside Farm?”

“Yes, that is one of the best farms on the property, and is let to a very respectable man named Churchill. Suppose we walk over to-morrow morning, and I will show you the place?”

John, nothing loath, at once assented.

“The house is old and somewhat picturesque,” continued the squire, “and now that the outbuildings are in such good order, I consider Woodside a sort of model place.”

John expressed himself desirous of seeing it, and he doubtless was. He had not forgotten that Woodside was the Mayflower’s home, and he wished again to look on her fair face.

“There can be no harm in it,” he thought; “it is a very innocent pleasure indeed to admire a pretty girl.”

Accordingly at breakfast the next morning he reminded the squire of his proposition of the night before.

“Didn’t you say, sir,” he said, “that we had to go over and see some model farm or other this morning?”

“Yes, to be sure, Woodside Farm,” answered the squire, “but it had gone out of my head, as things sometimes do now. I am glad you reminded me of it.”

The uncle and nephew accordingly started together almost immediately breakfast was over.

“We will get there, I think, before Churchill gets away among his fields,” said the squire. “I should like you to see him, for I believe him to be a highly respectable man.”

It was a bright, fresh morning, and John Temple enjoyed the walk. The waving mazes of uncut corn; the hedge-rows scented with the meadow-sweet; the cattle standing under the trees, made to his mind a pleasant picture.

“After all, the country is charming,” he said, raising his head as though more freely to inhale the air, and looking round at the green and fertile landscape.

“Do you think you would not tire of it?” asked the old man by his side, lifting his sad eyes and looking steadfastly at his nephew’s good-looking face. He was wondering what his life had been; how the last decade of his thirty years had passed. Not in riotous living he told himself, for John Temple’s features bore no marks of dissipation nor sin. His eyes were clear and resolute, his whole bearing that of a man who had led at least a fairly good life.

“He looks honest,” thought the squire, and then he sighed, thinking of his dead boy, and all the fond hopes which lay buried in his untimely grave.

“I might tire of it,” answered John, smiling in reply to his uncle’s question, “if I never had any change, for I think we all want change. It is human nature, part of our heritage, to desire it.”

Again the old man sighed.

“You must marry now, John,” he said, and as he spoke a flush rose to his nephew’s face.

“I think not,” he answered.

“You will think differently I hope, some day,” continued the squire. “But here we are at Woodside; it is a pretty spot.”

It was indeed a pretty spot; a long, low, white house, standing amid a large old-fashioned garden, with trim box-borders, and fruit trees laden with their ripening crops. They approached the house from the front, but at the rear the squire pointed out with some pardonable pride the new and expensive outbuildings.

“I wish every farm on the property was in such good order,” he said. “But we will go into the garden, and I dare say will find the farmer somewhere about, or perhaps his daughter can tell us where he is.”

As he spoke the squire opened the garden gate and passed down the walks, accompanied by John Temple and followed by two dogs. A little summer house stood on the path, and a moment later a pretty scrimmage ensued. A very handsome gray kitten was disporting itself at the entrance of the summer house, and at the sight of the avowed enemies of its race, the kitten prepared for battle. With tail erected and every hair on end, it stood to receive the charge it evidently expected. The dogs saw it, and with vicious yells ran forward, and the brave kitten’s moments had been numbered had not its mistress with a cry sprang forward from the interior of the summer house and caught it to her breast. The squire and John called back the dogs; the Mayflower protected her kitten, and then stood smiling and blushing to receive her visitors at the entrance of the summer house.

“Oh, Mr. Temple, your dogs frightened me so!” she said, as the squire offered her his hand.

“I am very sorry,” he answered, “but they have not touched your kitten, have they?”

“In another instant they would,” smiled the Mayflower, holding her pet tightly in her arms.

“What a pretty creature it is,” said John Temple, now stroking the kitten’s striped head, whose large eyes were wide open with terror.

“Yes, isn’t he a beauty?” answered the Mayflower. “Poor Jacky! and would the naughty dogs have eaten you?”

Jacky looked as if he decidedly thought that they would, and clung to his mistress’ white frock, who soothed and comforted him. The Mayflower certainly was a lovely creature as she stood thus, with her fair head uncovered. She had been sewing in the summer house; trimming a white straw hat, and ribbons and flowers lay strewn about, and as a man of taste John Temple found it impossible not to admire so pretty a picture.

“Is your father in the house?” now asked the squire.

“He was in the garden five minutes ago, looking at the apple trees,” replied the Mayflower. “Shall I call him, Mr. Temple?”

But at this moment Mr. Churchill, the farmer, was seen advancing toward them, as he had heard in another part of the garden the squire and John Temple calling back their dogs, and now came to see what was the matter. He took off his low-crowned hat when he recognized the squire, but Mr. Temple held out his thin hand to his favorite tenant.

“Well, Mr. Churchill, how are you?” he said. “I have brought my nephew to see you; my nephew—and now my heir.”

His voice faltered a little as he said the last few words, and a look of respectful sympathy passed over the farmer’s brown face.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said, looking at John Temple with a pair of very intelligent gray eyes.

Altogether he was a good-looking man, and was, moreover, an excellent farmer. He had gone with the times, and instead of grumbling at the price of corn and foreign competition, grew on his land the crops he found to sell best. He was a great breeder of horses also, and his stud was quite a famous one. He was also a keen man at a bargain, and prosperous. He had married a lady in a superior social position to himself, whom he had won by his good-looking face, and he had given his only daughter Margaret Alice Churchill (the Mayflower) an excellent education. Mrs. Churchill had died two years ago, but as yet he had taken no second wife, so May, as she was always called at the farm, was the mistress of the house.

He had two other children, both schoolboys, and Willie Churchill (the second boy) had been one of the players in the fatal game of football when poor Phil Temple, the little heir of Woodlea, had met his death. The squire knew this fact, but no particular blame had been laid on the boy. A rush had taken place, and the little heir had fallen, and it was said to be impossible to tell who had given the actual kick or blow that had destroyed Phil Temple’s life.

“I think it will interest my nephew to have a look at your stud,” continued the squire; “he’s lived mostly in towns, and knows nothing of farming, I dare say, but horses interest nearly all men.”

“To be sure,” answered Mr. Churchill. “But won’t you come in, gentlemen, and rest awhile first, and have a glass of claret, or a taste of our home-brew or cider?”

The squire accepted the farmer’s offer, and said he would have a glass of the home-brewed ale, as he knew it of old. He therefore walked on toward the house, accompanied by Mr. Churchill; and May Churchill, still carrying her kitten, followed the two, with John Temple by her side.

“I was quite glad when my uncle proposed to come here to-day, Miss Churchill,” he said; “I wanted to see your pretty home.”

“You are very welcome,” answered the Mayflower, with such a charming grace of manner that John Temple could not help wondering where she could possibly have acquired it.

“You must show me your fernery,” he continued; “and,” he added hastily, for they were now nearing the house, “will you come one day to Fern Dene, and let me try to find some rare ones for you? Will you come to-day—this afternoon?”

May blushed to her pretty white brow.

“This afternoon?” she repeated with hesitation.

“Yes, why not? It is fine; promise to come?”

“Very well,” said May, and as she spoke her father turned round and addressed her.

“May, my dear,” he said, “give me the cellar keys.”

“At three o’clock,” remarked John Temple in a low tone, but May had heard the words.

She hurriedly entered the flower-festooned porch of the house, which opened into a long low hall with windows on either side of the door, which also were filled with flowers.

The whole place, indeed, had an air of comfort and refinement, and the dining-room into which Mr. Churchill ushered the squire and John Temple was not only substantially but handsomely furnished. A rich turkey carpet lay on the polished oak floor, and the sideboard and mantel-piece were of carved oak. John Temple looked around with astonishment. He had pictured a tenant-farmer’s house to be so very different. For, from the silver flagon in which a neat hand-maiden bore the home-brewed ale, to the fair young daughter, everything at Woodside was of the very best.

May Churchill lingered in the room a few minutes, and then when the squire began to talk of the stud and their accommodation, she went out, and John Temple saw her once more enter the garden. But he did not see her again during his visit to the farm. The farmer was intent on his different breeds of horses, and had made a good bargain with the government during the last months for mounts for the troops. John got a little weary, it must be confessed, to all this, but the squire was interested. John was thinking of the sunny garden not far away, and wishing he was wandering with fair May among the flowers. However, he made no sign of this. He left Mr. Churchill with the impression that he was a sensible, well-bred young man, and likely to make a good landlord, and this last idea was an important point to Mr. Churchill’s mind.

The uncle and nephew left Woodside in time to be back to the Hall for lunch, and when they entered the dining-room, to their great surprise they found Mrs. Temple awaiting their arrival.

It was the first time that she had been down-stairs since her boy’s death, and the squire went forward with some emotion, and took her hand when he saw her.

“My dear,” he said, “I am very glad you are able to come down to-day—this is John Temple, my nephew.”

John bowed low, and Mrs. Temple fixed her dark eyes on his face, but did not speak, or make any allusion to their meeting on the corridor the day before.

“We have had a long walk,” continued the squire, a little nervously, “and you must be hungry, John?”

“Please sit down, then,” said Mrs. Temple, still looking at John with her restless eyes, and waving him to take a seat at the table. “It’s a fine day outside, isn’t it?”

“A charming day,” answered John. “Do you think you will feel well enough to venture out a little?”

“I don’t know,” she replied; “I am weary of being indoors. I feel as if I can not breathe, and yet to go out so soon, so soon”—and she covered her face with her hand.

“My love, I entreat you not to agitate yourself,” said the squire, yet more nervously.

She took her hand from her face; her eyes were dry and hard, and she smiled a bitter smile.

“I did not mean to make a scene,” she said. “I meant to be as if nothing had happened—as if I had still something to live for. I apologize to you, Mr. Temple.”

Again John bowed low his comely head.

“I wish you could understand,” he said, “how deeply and truly I sympathize with your grief—I do, indeed, Mrs. Temple.”

There was the ring of truth in his voice; the gleam of truth in his gray eyes, and Mrs. Temple seemed to understand this.

“Do not let us speak of it,” she said, and as she spoke she seated herself at the table. “Now, tell me where you have both been?”

“We have been over some of the farms,” answered the squire, hastily, and John understood that for some reason or other he did not wish to speak of their visit to Woodside to his wife.

But John was an easy conversationalist, and the lunch hour passed not unpleasantly. After it was over Mrs. Temple rose, restlessly.

“Come with me into the garden for a short time,” she said, addressing John; “it will occupy my mind a little to talk to you.”

“I shall be most happy,” he answered, and for the next half-hour he walked up and down the garden walks with his uncle’s wife. She was evidently trying to keep herself under control, but occasionally she grew excited.

“You must have thought me mad yesterday,” she said once, “to waylay you as I did. But I felt so restless to see you; I hated you, you know, because—because you had come to take my darling’s place.”

“I hope you will not hate me any longer,” replied John, gently.

She looked at him searchingly.

“No,” she said, “I do not think I shall. But bear with me for a little while, for I have suffered so much. Mine has been a life of suffering,” she added, impetuously. “No one knows, none but my own heart, what I have gone through.”

“We all suffer at times, I believe,” answered John, gravely.

“But men do not suffer as women do,” continued Mrs. Temple, excitedly. “Men can go out into the world, can fight, can struggle, while we sit breaking our hearts at home. But why speak of it? Anyone can tell what my life has been—look at my marriage?”

“But my uncle is most devoted to you?”

“A young woman married to an old man! Take my advice, Mr. Temple, don’t marry an old woman.”

She gave a harsh little laugh as she said this, and it jarred on John’s ears. He grew restless to go away. It must be nearing three o’clock, he knew, and he wanted to be in the woods at Fern Dene, with someone who was fresh and fair, not like this dark, handsome, spirit-torn woman. And with quick intuition Mrs. Temple perceived this.

“You are tired of me,” she said, “and I am getting tired of you. Good-by for the present; we will meet again at dinner;” and with this she nodded and turned away, and John was free to follow his own inclinations.