him with a lavish will.

The solemn trees, that "seem to hold mystical converse with each
other," look down upon the tranquil scene that, season after season,
changes, fades away, and dies, only to return again, fairer and
fresher than of yore. The fir-trees tower upwards, and gleam
green-black against the sky. Upon some topmost boughs the birds are
chanting a paean of their own; while through this "wilderness of
sweets"--far down between its deep banks (that are rich with trailing
ivy and drooping bracken)--runs a stream, a slow, delicious, lazy
stream, that glides now over its moss-grown stones, and anon flashes
through some narrow ravine dark and profound. As it runs it babbles
fond love-songs to the pixies that, perchance, are peeping out at it,
through their yellow tresses, from shady curves and sun-kissed
corners.

It is one of May's divinest efforts,--a day to make one glad and feel
that it is well to be alive. Yet Branscombe, walking through this
fairy glen, though conscious of its beauty, is conscious, too, that in
his heart he knows a want not to be satisfied until Fate shall again
bring him face to face with the girl with whom he had parted so
unamicably the night before.

Had she really meant him not to call to-day? Will she receive him
coldly? Is it even possible to find her in such an absurd place as
this, where positively everything seems mixed up together in such a
hopeless fashion that one can't see farther than one's nose? Perhaps,
after all, she is not here, has returned to the house, and is now----

Suddenly, across the bluebells, there comes to him a fresh sweet
voice, that thrills him to his very heart. It is hers; and there, in
the distance, he can see her, just where the sunlight falls athwart
the swaying ferns.

She is sitting down, and is leaning forward, having taken her knees
well into her embrace. Her broad hat is tilted backward, so that the
sunny straggling hair upon her forehead can be plainly seen. Her gown
is snow-white, with just a touch of black at the throat and wrists; a
pretty frill of soft babyish lace caresses her throat.

Clear and happy, as though it were a free bird's her voice rises on
the wind and reaches Branscombe, and moves him as no other voice ever
had--or will ever again have--power to move him.

"There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate;
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate."

The kind win