pass,
A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps."

And Georgie descending the stone steps of the balcony, feels her whole
nature thrill and glow beneath the warmth and richness of the beauty
spread all around with lavish hand. Scarcely a breath stirs the air;
no sound comes to mar the deep stillness of the day, save the echo of
the "swallows' silken wings skimming the water of the sleeping lake."

As she passes the rose-trees, she puts out her hand, and, from the
very fulness of her heart, touches some of the drowsy flowers with
caressing fingers. She is feeling peculiarly happy to-day: everything
is going so smoothly with her; her life is devoid of care; only
sunshine streams upon her path; storm and rain and nipping frosts seem
all forgotten.

Going into the garden, she pulls a flower or two and places them in
the bosom of her white gown, and bending over the basin of a fountain,
looks at her own image, and smiles at it, as well she may.

Then she blushes at her own vanity, and, drawing back from nature's
mirror, tells herself she will go a little farther, and see what
Andrews, the under-gardener (who has come to Sartoris from Hythe), is
doing in the shrubbery.

The path by which she goes is so thickly lined with shrubs on the
right-hand side that she cannot be seen through them, nor can she see
those beyond. Voices come to her from the distance, that, as she
advances up the path, grow even louder. She is not thinking of them,
or, indeed, of anything but the extreme loveliness of the hour, when
words fall upon her ear that make themselves intelligible and send the
blood with a quick rush to her heart.

"It is a disgraceful story altogether; and to have the master's name
mixed up with it is shameful!"

The voice, beyond doubt, belongs to Graham, the upper-housemaid, and
is full of honest indignation.

Hardly believing she has heard aright, and without any thought of
eaves-dropping, Georgie stands still upon the walk, and waits in
breathless silence for what may come next.

"Well, I think it is shameful," says another voice, easily recognized
as belonging to Andrews. "But I believe it is the truth for all that.
Father saw him with his own eyes. It was late, but just as light as it
is now, and he saw him plain."

"Do you mean to tell me," says Graham, with increasing wrath (she is
an elderly woman, and has lived at Sartoris for many years), "that you
really think your master had either hand, act, or part in i