low, doubtless now raging against the faithlessness which
had blackened all his sky. In this moment of softened feeling, of lucid
calm, Warburton saw Rosamund's behaviour in a new light. Perhaps she
was not blameworthy at all, but rather deserving of all praise; for, if
she had come to know, beyond doubt, that she did not love Norbert
Franks as she had thought, then to break the engagement was her simple
duty, and the courage with which she had taken this step must be set to
her credit. Naturally, it would be some time before Franks himself took
that view. A third person, whose vanity was not concerned, might
moralise thus--

Will checked himself on an unpleasant thought. Was _his_ vanity, in
truth, unconcerned in this story? Why, then, had he been conscious of a
sub-emotion, quite unavowable, which contradicted his indignant
sympathy during that talk last night in the street? If the lover's
jealousy were as ridiculous as he pretended, why did he feel what now
he could confess to himself was an unworthy titillation, when Franks
seemed to accuse him of some part in the girl's disloyalty? Vanity,
that, sure enough; vanity of a very weak and futile kind. He would
stamp the last traces of it out of his being. Happily it was but
vanity, and no deeper feeling. Of this he was assured by the reposeful
sigh with which he turned his head upon the pillow, drowsing to
oblivion.

One unbroken sleep brought him to sunrise; a golden glimmer upon the
blind in his return to consciousness told him that the rain was over,
and tempted him to look forth. What he saw was decisive; with such a
sky as that gleaming over the summer world, who could lie in bed? Will
always dressed as if in a fury; seconds sufficed him for details of the
toilet, which, had he spent minutes over them, would have fretted his
nerves intolerably. His bath was one wild welter--not even the ceiling
being safe from splashes; he clad himself in a brief series of plunges;
his shaving might have earned the applause of an assembly gathered to
behold feats of swift dexterity. Quietly he descended the stairs, and
found the house-door already open; this might only mean that the
servant was already up, but he suspected that the early riser was Jane.
So it proved; he walked toward the kitchen garden, and there stood his
sister, the sun making her face rosy.

"Come and help to pick scarlet runners," was her greeting, as he
approached. "Aren't they magnificent?"

Her eyes spa