hat to her old self.

She is graver--if possible, gentler, more tender--than in the days
before grief had touched her. And, though her love has really died
beyond all reawakening, still the memory of what once had been has
left its mark upon her.

To Sir James she has never since mentioned the name of the man in whom
she had once so firmly believed, though oftentimes it has occurred to
her that relief might follow upon the bare asking of a question that
might serve to make common the actual remembrance of him.

To-day, as Scrope comes up the lawn to meet her, as she bends over the
"bright children of the sun," a sense of gladness that he is coming
fills her. She feels no nervousness or weariness with him, only rest
and peace, and something that is deeper still, though yet vague and
absolutely unknown to her own heart.

She goes forward to meet him, a smile upon her lips, treading lightly
on the young grass, that is emerald in hue,--as the color of my own
dear land,--and through which

"The meek daisies show
Their breasts of satin snow,
Bedecked with tiny stars of gold mid perfume sighs."

"You again?" she says, with a lovely smile. He was here only
yesterday.

"What an uncivil speech! Do I come too often?" He has her hand in his,
and is holding it inquiringly, but it is such a soft and kind inquiry.

"Not half often enough," she says, and hardly knows why his face
flushes at her words, being still ignorant of the fact that he loves
her with a love that passeth the love of most.

"Well, you sha'n't have to complain of that any longer," he says,
gayly. "Shall I take up my residence here?"

"Do," says Miss Peyton, also in jest.

"I would much rather you took up yours at Scrope," he says,
unthinkingly, and then he flushes again, and then silence falls
between them.

Her foot is tapping the sward lightly, yet nervously. Her eyes are on
the "daisies pied." Presently, as though some inner feeling compels
her to it, she says,--"Why do you never speak to me of--Horace?"

"You forbade me," he says: "how could I disobey you? He is well,
however, but, I think, not altogether happy. In his last letter, to me
he still spoke remorsefully of--her." It is agony to him to say this,
yet he does it bravely, knowing it will be the wisest thing for the
woman he himself loves.

"Yes," she says, quite calmly. At this instant she knows her love for
Horace Branscombe is quite dead. "Her death was terr