A vague sense of disappointment stole into May Churchill’s heart as she read this letter of John Temple’s—a vague sense of disappointment and pain. He seemed so terribly afraid that people should talk about them, and then, her father—for the first time May felt remorse about her father—and began to realize that she might have caused him great anxiety.

And her own position, too, unless they were to be married soon, would be very trying. John had said that in a fortnight at latest he would join her, but now he did not seem at all certain of this. Altogether the letter disturbed her exceedingly, and she was sitting still and silent in her own room, when kind Miss Eliza rapped at the door and put in her head.

“My dear,” she said, “our nephew Ralph wishes to know if you would like to go to one of the picture galleries this morning?”

“I think not, Miss Eliza,” answered May in a constrained voice.

“Are you feeling tired?” now asked good Miss Eliza; “Ah, I was afraid you were doing too much.”

“I think I do feel a little tired, but it is nothing; only I should rather not go out this morning,” said May, gently. “But please thank Mr. Webster for his kindness in offering to take me.”

“I am sure it gives him pleasure; but I’ll go now and tell him you do not wish to go.”

After this Miss Eliza went away, and presently May heard the front door of the house shut sharply. It was Ralph Webster going out, with also a feeling of disappointment in his heart of which he was half-ashamed.

“What can have tired her, I wonder?” he was reflecting. “She seemed as bright as possible last night.”

May in the meanwhile was thinking of what she should do about answering John Temple’s letter. She had seen that gentle look of surprise in Miss Margaret’s mild eyes when she had placed John’s letter in her hand, and no doubt she would be yet more surprised when she asked her to inclose her own to him. Yet John had requested her to do this, and she must, of course, do as he wished.

So after awhile she sat down to write to him. She had never written to him before, and this first love letter was therefore a very serious affair. She began it three times.

“Dear John”—no, that was too cold. “My own dearest John”—no, that was too warm! “Dearest John;” yes, May thought that would do. Was he not her dearest John? Not only her dearest John, but the dearest to her of all on earth.

May thought this as she went on with her letter. She told him how good and kind Miss Webster and Miss Eliza were to her, and she told him also of all the places and amusements they had taken her to see.

“Their nephew, Mr. Ralph Webster, has gone with us generally, also,” she added; “but oh! how I wish you were here, John. It all seems like a beautiful new world to me, but I miss you always. Still you must run no risks for my sake. And John, dear John, do keep out of the way of that wretched Mr. Henderson. Somehow I am afraid of him, though I know he can do you no harm. But he is a passionate-tempered man, I am certain, and cruel, as we know after the way he behaved to that poor, poor girl who shot herself. I wonder if her spirit ever haunts him? Her memory must, I am certain, for no doubt he broke her heart.”

After she had once begun her letter May found it quite easy to go on. It seemed almost as if she were talking to John; telling him her thoughts as she had done in the still garden at Woodside, when no one was by to listen. Note-sheet after note-sheet she filled with this fond prattling, until she suddenly remembered with dismay that hers would be such a big letter for Miss Webster to inclose to John. Still she could not part with one word. She pressed her sheets together as tightly as she could, and then went somewhat nervously down-stairs with her letter in her hand to seek Miss Webster.

Miss Eliza had gone out to change her novel at the nearest library, for Miss Eliza was a great lover of fiction, and thus May found Miss Webster alone in the dining-room industriously engaged in marking some household linen. May felt that she colored painfully when Miss Webster raised her kind eyes as she entered the room and greeted May with a smile.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “Eliza says you feel rather tired this morning, and I am sorry for that. Is there anything you would like? A glass of port wine before lunch?”

“Oh! no, Miss Webster,” answered May with a smile and a pretty blush. “There is really nothing the matter with me—only I had a letter to write—to Mr. Temple.”

“To Mr. Temple?” repeated Miss Webster, looking at the fair face of her young guest.

“Yes, he asked me to write,” went on May, nervously; “and—and—Miss Webster, he—”

“Well, my dear, what is it?” asked Miss Webster, gently, as May paused and hesitated.

“He said if you would be so kind as to inclose my letters to him he would like that best,” said May, taking courage. “You see he is staying with his uncle, and I believe his uncle’s wife is rather an odd woman—so he thinks it best that she should not know that we write to each other at present.”

Miss Webster did not speak for a moment or two after May had made this somewhat confused explanation. But she was thinking very seriously. So this young girl’s visit to London was evidently a secret, she was reflecting—a secret from Mr. John Temple’s relations; probably from May Churchill’s own. The knowledge of this made Miss Webster somewhat nervous. She had the greatest belief and trust in Mr. John Temple—had they not known him for years?—and she was quite sure he would not do what was wrong to anyone. Still, May was a young girl—and once more Miss Webster’s gentle eyes rested on the young girl’s face.

“Please do this for me, Miss Webster,” pleaded May, in her pretty way, laying her little white hand on Miss Webster’s thin, bluish-tinted one.

“It must seem funny to you, I know, but it won’t some day—some day,” she added, a little proudly, raising her head, “you will know that neither John nor I are doing any wrong.”

“I am sure you are not,” answered Miss Webster, taking the little fluttering hand in hers. “I have a great regard for Mr. John Temple, and so has sister Eliza. Yes, my dear, I will inclose your letter. You will find some large envelopes lying on the writing-table there.”

So the large envelope was duly directed to John Temple, Esq., in the rather old-fashioned, shaky handwriting of Miss Margaret Webster, and was carried to the nearest post office by May herself, and sped on its way, until the next morning it was lying on the breakfast table at Woodlea Hall, near the seat that John usually occupied while he was staying there.

The squire always opened the letter-bag, and passed on the letters to their different owners, but it chanced this morning that John Temple was not yet down when his big letter arrived, neither was Mrs. Temple. Presently, however, Mrs. Temple appeared, and looked first at her own letters, and then at John’s large one.

“What old woman, I wonder, is writing to John Temple?” she said, holding up the letter to attract her husband’s attention. “Perhaps it contains one from a young one.” And she laughed.

“You should not say such things as that, Rachel,” answered the squire, rather reprovingly.

“Why not?” went on Mrs. Temple.

At this moment John Temple opened the dining-room door, and walked up to his place at the table, while Mrs. Temple still had his letter in her hand.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Temple; good-morning, uncle,” said John, pleasantly.

“Good-morning, nephew John,” answered Mrs. Temple, with just a touch of defiance in her tone. “Do you see I am meddling with your property?” And she placed the letter in his hand. “I have just been admiring the handwriting of your lady correspondent, and the size and fullness of her epistle.”

John’s brown face colored slightly, and he put out his hand for his letter, but that was all.

“Ah,” he said, looking at it with affected carelessness, “this is from my landlady in town, and no doubt contains all my unpaid bills.”

“I thought you had no unpaid bills,” retorted Mrs. Temple, smiling. “Your uncle, on my suggesting that he should pay some of mine, held you up as a pattern in the matter of bills. ‘John owes nothing,’ he said; now it appears to me that if that envelope contains nothing but bills, that John must owe a great deal.”

“Rachel, do not talk nonsense,” interrupted the squire, moving his newspaper restlessly. “John, what will you take?”

John put his letter into his pocket before he made his choice.

“Let me hide my bills first,” he said. “Thanks, uncle,” he said, “I’ll have some cold grouse.”

Thus the subject of John’s letter was dropped for the present, but Mrs. Temple had not forgotten it. She waited until the squire went out of the room, and then went up to John, smilingly.

“Well, my nephew John,” she said, “I’ll leave you now to study your unpaid bills; or,” she added archly, “to read your love letters from an old woman, and one, maybe, from a young one, too!”

“I wish it were so,” replied John, as Mrs. Temple laughed and moved toward the door of the room; “but I am not so fortunate as you think.”

But the moment she had disappeared his expression changed, and he hastily drew out the envelope Miss Webster had directed, and found inside the letter from May. This also he quickly opened, and his face softened strangely as he read the tender words it contained.

“May, dear little May,” he murmured to himself, half-aloud, “and you miss me, darling, do you? but not more, not half so much, May, as I miss you.”

He read her long letter twice, and then put it into his pocket, and going into the hall, took a cap from the hat-stand, and strolled out into the park. The mist lay on the dewy grass and floated in the air, blurring the landscape somewhat, and hanging shadow-like around the trees. But John Temple scarcely noticed the atmosphere. He was trying to unravel some of the problems of his life; to make a crooked path straight for the sake of his young love.

“But for May I should not mind,” he was thinking, “but I must shield May; she must never know.”

Then he thought of her as he had first seen her by his young cousin’s grave; thought of the day when he had met her in the country lane gathering the hedge roses; and of those other meetings when they had drifted nearer and nearer to each other’s hearts.

“A good man would have fled from temptation, I suppose,” he replied, gloomily enough. “But I did not, and now—it is too late.”