s."

Going through the woods that lie upon his right, he walks silently
onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift-coming night, yet too
restless in mind to take in all its charms that are rich enough to
satisfy a hungry soul. A soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the
young and tender branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the
"feathery people of mid-air" are preening their downy plumage and
murmuring sleepy hymns ere sinking to their rest.

Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of cattle, and
the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it floats idly by. The very
sound of Dorian's footsteps upon the soft grass can be distinctly
heard, so deadly is the calm that ushers in the night; when, lo! from
out some thicket, the nightingale,--

"Who is silent all day long;
But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses
Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs
Until they waken"--

bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the notes one
above the other, each vying in beauteous harmony with the last, until
one's very heart aches for love and admiration of their sweetness.

Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts, still pauses
to listen, until silence following upon the passionate burst of
melody, he draws his breath quickly and goes on to Hythe, and into the
dining-room there, where he finds Lord Sartoris still over his wine.

He is sitting at the head of the long table, looking strangely
solitary, and very much aged, considering the short time that has
elapsed since last he left Pullingham.

"So you are home again, Arthur," says Dorian, coldly, but with
apparent composure. They have not been face to face since that last
meeting, when bitter words, and still more bitter looks, had passed
between them.

Now, letting the quickly spoken sentence take the place of a more
active greeting, they nod coolly to each other, and carefully refuse
to let their hands touch.

"Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I returned two days ago. Business
recalled me; otherwise I was sufficiently comfortable where I was to
make me wish to remain there."

"And Constance, is she quite well?"

"Quite well, thank you. Your other cousins desired to be remembered to
you. So did she, of course."

A pause, prolonged and undesirable.

"You will take some claret?" says Sartoris, at last, pushing the
bottle towards him.

"No, thank you; I have only just dined. I came up to-night