ith his hands joined behind him, his
eyes fixed upon her face, waiting for her to turn But several moments
passed and she was still intent on the landscape. He spoke.

'Will you let me look?'

Her hands fell, all but dropping the glass; still, she did not start
with unbecoming shrug as most people do, the instinctive movement of
guarding against a stroke; the falling of her arms was the only abrupt
motion, her head turning in the direction of the speaker with a grace as
spontaneous as that we see in a fawn that glances back before flight.

'Oh, Mr. Eldon! How silently you have come!'

The wild rose of her cheeks made rivalry for an instant with the richer
garden blooms, and the subsiding warmth left a pearly translucency as of
a lily petal against the light.

She held her hand to him, delicately gloved, warm; the whole of it was
hidden within Hubert's clasp.

'What were you looking at so attentively?' he asked.

'At Agworth station,' replied Adela, turning her eyes again in that
quarter. 'My brother's train ought to be in by now, I think. He comes
home every Saturday.'

'Does he?'

Hubert spoke without thought, his look resting upon the maiden's red
girdle.

'I am glad that you are well again,' Adela said with natural kindness.
'You have had a long illness.'

'Yes; it has been a tiresome affair. Is Mrs. Waltham well?'

'Quite, thank you.'

'And your brother?'

'Alfred never had anything the matter with him in his life, I believe,'
she answered, with a laugh.

'Fortunate fellow! Will you lend me the glass?'

She held it to him, and at the same moment her straying eye caught a
glimpse of white smoke, far off.

'There comes the train!' she exclaimed. 'You will be able to see it
between these two hills.'

Hubert looked and returned the glass to her, but she did not make use of
it.

'Does he walk over from Agworth?' was Hubert's next question.

'Yes. It does him good after a week of Belwick.'

'There will soon be little difference between Belwick and Wanley,'
rejoined Hubert, drily.

Adela glanced at him; there was sympathy and sorrow in the look.

'I knew it would grieve you,' she said.

'And what is your own feeling? Do you rejoice in the change as a sign of
progress?'

'Indeed, no. I am very, very sorry to have our beautiful valley so
spoilt. It is only--'

Hubert eyed her with sudden sharpness of scrutiny; the look seemed to
check her words.

'Only what?' he asked. 'You find compensa