John Temple went early to Woodside the next morning, after first making up his mind that he must indulge in no more lovemaking to May Churchill.

“It’s not fair to the dear little girl,” he told himself. “I was led away last night; any man would—a saint would have been, and I am not a saint.”

He kept this determination in his mind all the way to the farm. He was going to see Mr. Churchill about his horse, and not to look at the sweet Mayflower. Nevertheless, his pulses beat a little more quickly when he thought of her, and when he rang at the doorbell of the house his heart was throbbing fast.

In answer to his inquiry if Mr. Churchill were within, the maid replied, with rather a peculiar smile, that her master had left home for some days.

“But,” she added, “he left a letter for you, sir, with Miss Churchill, and she told me to tell you this if you called.”

“Then can I see Miss Churchill?” asked John.

“Yes, sir; will you step this way?”

John accordingly followed the maid to the dining-room, and when she announced Mr. Temple, May rose to receive him with a shy smile and a charming blush.

“I called to see your father about the horse,” began John as he took her pretty white fluttering hand in his.

“Yes, he left a letter for you,” answered May; “a—very strange thing has happened, Mr. Temple.”

“What has happened?” asked John, smiling, and thinking the while how lovely she looked.

“After you left last night,” and the blush deepened as she spoke, “he told me he was going away to be married to-day.”

“To be married!” echoed John, in great surprise.

“Yes, it has upset me very much; I do not like the person; I do not like it at all.”

“And you knew nothing about it?”

“He told me a few days ago he was thinking of going to be married again; but this is so sudden—I am very much distressed about it.”

“You must not let it worry you.”

“But I can’t help it worrying me; I can’t bear the idea of it—it has made me very unhappy.”

May was standing with her hand leaning on the back of the chair from which she had risen at John’s entrance, and somehow it seemed only natural that he now should put his brown hand over her white one in a consoling manner.

“I am very sorry,” he said; “and I can not bear to think of you being unhappy.”

“It’s very good of you,” began May, “but—”

“I won’t allow you to be unhappy,” continued John; “come, you must cheer up—you dear little girl.”

He really did not mean to do it, but when a man has once nearly kissed a pretty girl, it seems very natural for him to do it again. At all events John did kiss the lovely blooming face before him, and all the rebuke he got was:

“Oh! Mr. Temple, you should not do that!”

“I know I should not,” answered John, penitently; “but you are so sweet, so dear, I could not help myself—and then you are unhappy, you know, so you must forgive me.”

“I am really unhappy.”

“Don’t think about the horrid woman,” consoled John, taking the two pretty hands in his; “think of something else—think a little bit about me.”

The last few words were half-whispered, and they seemed to console May somehow. She began to smile again, and she looked softly at John, though she drew her little hands away from his grasp.

“It seems such a thing,” she said, “for him to forget my mother.”

“Ah—well; he is only mortal, I suppose.”

“Then do you think everyone forgets, Mr. Temple?”

“I think men—” and then he paused. “I know someone that I never could forget,” he continued.

May did not inquire who this “someone” was.

“Someone whose face I would dream of if I did not see it for twenty years,” went on John, energetically.

“It would be changed in twenty years,” replied May, with a little sigh.

“Not in my eyes; in my eyes it could never change.”

This was the way in which John kept to his resolution. They went into the garden awhile after this, and sat listening to a black bird singing to his mate. Then they went to May’s fernery, and walked beneath the shadow of the trees, and talked fond foolish words. May forgot all about her father’s marriage and her hated stepmother. She was with the man she liked best in all the world, and she believed he loved her. What happiness is like this? The golden hours of youth and hope; the vague foreshadowings of still greater joy.

Before they parted John had promised to call again.

“I shall be so lonely,” May had said softly, and how could he leave her lonely? Yet he did not mean any wrong; it was the drifting tide bearing him on to he knew not where.

At all events during the next few days he went constantly to Woodside. Mr. Churchill’s marriage had taken place, and the wealthy widow from Castle Hill would, no doubt, soon be installed at the farm. May tried not to think of it, and she tried also to tell herself that she must not think seriously of Mr. Temple. But do what she would she did think of him. After all, if he really loved her, would not that sweep away the social difference between them?

And he did love her. May felt sure of this, and this surety alone brought her great happiness. People might try to separate them; his uncle probably would try, but true love can overcome all obstacles. In these sweet dreams the girl lived during the few days following her father’s marriage. Then the time for the adjourned inquest approached, and in due course May received a letter from her father to tell her that on the following evening that he and his newly-made wife would arrive at Woodside.

The preparations for this event were intensely disagreeable to May. John Temple also heard the news with great annoyance. No more quiet walks in the lonely garden then; no more tender hand-clasps, nor long, uninterrupted interviews. He gathered from May that her stepmother was not a lady; that she was bustling and interfering.

“Perhaps it is better,” John told himself.

May’s two young brothers, Hal and Willie Churchill, had been away for their holidays for a week or two also during this time, so that John Temple and the Mayflower practically had been able to see each other whenever they liked. They knew now this state of things would end. The boys were coming home; Mr. and Mrs. Churchill were on the point of arriving, and moreover, John Temple had received a hint from his uncle that his visits to Woodside Farm had been remarked on, and that it would be well that they should cease.

“It can end in nothing, you know, John,” the squire had said, not unkindly.

“Certainly it will end in nothing, uncle,” answered John, gravely. “I think, if you do not mind, after the adjourned inquest on that poor girl is over, I will leave Woodlea for a month or two.”

“My dear boy, you are your own master, and must guide your own actions,” said the squire; “only I do not think it quite fair to this pretty girl that you should pay her so much attention when you can not marry her.”

“No, I can not marry her,” replied John, and after this the subject was not mentioned again, but the conversation was not without effect on John Temple.

So he went to see May for the last time before her stepmother’s arrival in a very sober frame of mind. It was a dull, wet day, and when May saw him crossing the garden she went to open the house door for him, and gave him her hand with a warm clasp of welcome.

“Thank you for coming to cheer me, as I feel so dreadfully dull,” she said, smiling.

“I feel dreadfully dull, too,” answered John, putting down his wet umbrella and hat on the hall stand, and the next moment he put his hand through the girl’s arm.

“Come into the drawing-room,” said May, softly; “I have been making it all smart, and there is a fire there; it is so wet.”

They crossed the hall thus, John lightly leaning on May’s arm, and entered the drawing-room together. There was a bright fire burning in the grate, and the room was fresh and sweet with flowers. Altogether May had done her best to make it look cheerful, but still John felt very dull.

May went up to the fire, and John held out his chilled hands to the blaze.

“When do you expect these people to arrive?” he asked.

“Father said about six o’clock,” replied May.

John took out his watch and looked at it.

“It’s just four now,” he said, “and I must go by five; only one hour, May!”

May sighed softly, and John turned round and looked at her earnestly, and then also sighed.

“The last few days have been very bright, haven’t they, May?” he said.

“Yes,” half-whispered May.

“Too bright, I am afraid,” went on John; “it will make the coming ones seem dull.”

“There may be some bright ones still,” said May, in a low tone, with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks.

Again John looked at her. How pretty she was in her white frock and crimson ribbons! She had a crimson rose in her waistband and another at her throat. “Truly a fair picture,” John was thinking, and it was hard, very hard, to say the word he meant to speak.

“I am going away, May, for a bit,” he said at length, with an effort.

“Going away?” repeated the girl quickly, and her face flushed, and then grew a little pale, and John saw this.

“Yes,” went on John, still with an effort, “I think I shall go abroad for a month or two.”

May did not speak; her pallor increased, and her agitation was visible.

“But I shall never forget Woodside,” said John, after a moment’s pause, “nor you—Mayflower—I wish I could.”

“Why?” asked May, in a trembling voice, and she put out her hand as if for support.

“Because I would be happier if I could,” answered John, also much moved; “I will pay a bitter price, I am afraid, for the bright hours I have spent with you.”

“Oh, do not go away, Mr. Temple!” cried May, suddenly, looking at him with imploring eyes. “I—I shall be so lonely—I shall—”

“We must try to forget all this,” said John, and he put his arm around her and pressed his lips on hers. “Dear little girl—dear Mayflower—it is hard, it is bitter to go from you.”

Tears rushed into May’s eyes, and John kissed them away.

“Do not grieve, darling,” he whispered, “it would make me more sad if I thought I had done any harm to you.”

“But you will come back?” said May, in a broken voice.

John did not speak. He did not mean to come back, but he could not bear to see her distress. He kissed her again; he called her by every endearing name, and May put her hand in his and held it fast.

“Promise me to come back,” she whispered, with her cheek against his.

“I promise,” said John, after a moment’s pause, for he felt he could not resist her appeal.

“And do not quite forget me when you are away.”

“Forget you!” cried John, and he caught her passionately to his breast; “would that I could, May! It would be better for you and me—but the die is cast!”

She was still in his arms, with her head on his breast, when the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel outside was distinctly heard in the room. May lifted her head and gave a cry; John looked sharply around.

“If it is your father, whatever shall we do?”

May, girl-like, ran to the mirror; John, man-like, stood helpless.

“My hair is not very disorderly, is it?” she said, trying to smooth her soft bright curls. “How odious that they should come!”

“What shall I do?” asked John.

“Stay until they come in, and then I suppose—”

“I will go—good-by, dear May.”

He clasped her hand for a moment, and then May went to the door to receive her father and his bride. Mrs. Churchill was already in the hall, and was giving orders to the coachman and servants about her luggage; Mr. Churchill was giving orders about the horses.

As May went forward Mrs. Churchill saw her, and advanced toward her and kissed her face.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “here we are. We have had a wet day to travel in, but it makes it all the pleasanter to get home. And how are you?”

She was a good-looking, middle-aged woman; robust and dark, with marked dark eyebrows, and a firm, hard mouth. She looked a person of strong will also; somehow her very voice told you this.

“William,” she called out in a loud tone to her husband, “here is your daughter.”

Upon this Mr. Churchill came into the hall, and kissed May also.

“Well, my dear,” he said, kindly, “and how have you been getting on?”

“Mr. Temple is in the drawing-room, father,” said May, nervously.

“What—the squire?”

“No, Mr. John Temple.”

But John by this time had appeared. He went up to Mr. Churchill and shook hands with him.

“Well, Mr. Churchill, I hear I have to congratulate you,” he said, with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Temple,” answered the farmer. “Sarah, my dear, this is Mr. John Temple, our landlord’s nephew and heir.”

Upon this Mrs. Churchill bowed graciously, and after a few more pleasant words, John Temple went away. Then Mrs. Churchill began bustling about the house as if she had lived in it for twenty years. She remarked on the furniture, and decided where she would place her own “things,” as she called them. She made no pretense about consulting May in any of her arrangements, but took her place at once as mistress of the house and all that it contained.

“But what matter,” thought May, softly, as she stood looking out on the still garden on the night of her stepmother’s arrival at Woodside. “What matter does anything here now make to me?”