her hands lying
listlessly upon her lap, and no one near to comfort her or to kiss the
melancholy from her large mournful eyes.

As she hears him coming, she starts to her feet, and, turning aside,
hastily dries the tears upon her cheeks, lest he shall mark her
agitation.

"What is the matter with you?" asks he, with quick but suppressed
concern.

"Nothing," returns she, in a low tone.

"You can't be crying for nothing," says Dorian; "and even your very
voice is full of tears! Are you unhappy about anything?"

"What a question to ask me!" says Mrs. Branscombe, reproachfully, with
a fresh irrepressible sob, that goes to his heart. He shifts his gun
uneasily from one shoulder to the other, hardly knowing what to say.
Is it his fault that she is so miserable? Must he blame himself
because she has found it impossible to love him?

"I beg your pardon," he says, in a low tone. "Of course I have no
right to ask you any questions."

"Yet I would answer you if I knew how," returns she, in a voice as
subdued as his own.

The evening is falling silently, yet swiftly, throwing "her dusky
veil o'er nature's face." A certain chill comes from the hills and
damps the twilight air.

"It is getting late," says Branscombe, gently. "Will you come home
with me?"

"Yes, I will go home," she says, with a little troubled submissive
sigh, and, turning, goes with him down the narrow pathway that leads
to the avenue.

Above them the branches struggle and wage a goblin war with each
other, helped by the night-wind, which even now is rising with sullen
purpose in its moan.

Dorian strides on silently, sad at heart, and very hopeless. He is
making a vigorous effort to crush down all regretful memories, and is
forcing himself to try and think with gladness of the time, now fast
approaching, when he shall be once more parted from her who walks
beside him with bent head and quivering lips. His presence is a grief
to her. All these past weeks have proved this to him: her lips have
been devoid of smiles; her eyes have lost their light, her voice its
old gay ring. When he is gone, she may, perhaps, recover some of the
gayety that once was hers. And, once gone, why should he ever return?
And----

And then--then! A little bare cold hand creeps into the one of his
that is hanging loosely by his side, and, nestling in it, presses it
with nervous warmth.

Dorian's heart beats madly. He hardly dares believe it true that she
should, of her