f he had
power to wish he would not know what to desire. That might mean that he
was dwelling in that unrecognised stage of love, that period of
discomfort, doubt, and upheaval, which precedes the final illumination.
It would go hard with him if he loved and were disappointed. She put
the thought aside with resolute effort. Was not the glen dedicated to
happy thoughts?

The half-hour slipped quickly away, and presently Jean herself descended
to seat herself on the bench by Vanna's side, and take the conversation
under her own control. At four o'clock they returned to the house,
mounting the steep path, and entering with a sigh the stiff precincts of
the garden.

On the verandah the two stout, black-robed figures of the old ladies
could be seen reposing in their wickerwork chairs, but, behold, the
distance between those chairs was largely increased, and between the
two, the obvious centre of attraction, sat a third form--a masculine
form, clad in light grey clothes, towards whom both glances were
directed, who gesticulated with his hands, and bent from side to side.
The face of this newcomer could not be distinguished; his figure was
half hidden by the encircling chairs.

"Who the dickens?" ejaculated Piers blankly. He stared beneath frowning
brows, searching memory, without response. "None of the neighbours.
Some one from town. How has he come?"

Vanna looked, but without interest. In a short time the carriage would
be at the door to carry the three ladies back to the cottage by the sea.
The advent of a stranger could not affect them for good or ill. She
turned to exchange a casual remark with Jean, and behold, Jean's cheeks
were damask--flaming, as if with a fever. Now what was this? The
effect of that nap on the mossy ground? But not a moment before Jean's
colour had been normal. Had anything been said to arouse her wrath?
Was she by chance annoyed at this interruption to the visit? And then,
nearer already by a score of yards, Vanna turned once more towards the
verandah, and understood. There, sandwiched between the two old ladies,
smiling, debonair, at ease, a stranger, yet apparently on terms of easy
friendship, sat--not the wraith of Robert Gloucester, as for a moment
seemed the only possible explanation, but the man himself, in veritable
flesh and blood. Incredible, preposterous as it appeared, it was
nevertheless true. One could not doubt the evidence of one's own
senses, of the eyes which