heirs: that it was my world, what is to
them their world, and they in that life of mine, however much I cared
for them, only as the thought I seem to them to be. Nobody can enter
into another's nature truly, that's what is so grievous.'

'Well, it cannot be helped,' said Owen.

'But we must not stay here,' she continued, starting up and going. 'We
shall be missed. I'll do my best, Owen--I will, indeed.'

It had been decided that on account of the wretched state of the roads,
the newly-married pair should not drive to the station till the latest
hour in the afternoon at which they could get a train to take them to
Southampton (their destination that night) by a reasonable time in the
evening. They intended the next morning to cross to Havre, and thence to
Paris--a place Cytherea had never visited--for their wedding tour.

The afternoon drew on. The packing was done. Cytherea was so restless
that she could stay still nowhere. Miss Aldclyffe, who, though she took
little part in the day's proceedings, was, as it were, instinctively
conscious of all their movements, put down her charge's agitation for
once as the natural result of the novel event, and Manston himself was
as indulgent as could be wished.

At length Cytherea wandered alone into the conservatory. When in it,
she thought she would run across to the hot-house in the outer garden,
having in her heart a whimsical desire that she should also like to
take a last look at the familiar flowers and luxuriant leaves collected
there. She pulled on a pair of overshoes, and thither she went. Not
a soul was in or around the place. The gardener was making merry on
Manston's and her account.

The happiness that a generous spirit derives from the belief that it
exists in others is often greater than the primary happiness itself. The
gardener thought 'How happy they are!' and the thought made him happier
than they.

Coming out of the forcing-house again, she was on the point of returning
indoors, when a feeling that these moments of solitude would be her last
of freedom induced her to prolong them a little, and she stood
still, unheeding the wintry aspect of the curly-leaved plants, the
straw-covered beds, and the bare fruit-trees around her. The garden, no
part of which was visible from the house, sloped down to a narrow river
at the foot, dividing it from the meadows without.

A man was lingering along the public path on the other side of the
river; she fancied she kne