n, was to cry afresh; and the
next thing, when she reflected how well she had got over it, was to
laugh heartily. The tears once banished gave place to the smiles, and at
last Dolly laughed so much that she was fain to lean against a tree,
and give vent to her exultation. When she could laugh no longer, and was
quite tired, she put her head-dress to rights, dried her eyes, looked
back very merrily and triumphantly at the Warren chimneys, which were
just visible, and resumed her walk.

The twilight had come on, and it was quickly growing dusk, but the path
was so familiar to her from frequent traversing that she hardly thought
of this, and certainly felt no uneasiness at being left alone. Moreover,
there was the bracelet to admire; and when she had given it a good
rub, and held it out at arm's length, it sparkled and glittered so
beautifully on her wrist, that to look at it in every point of view and
with every possible turn of the arm, was quite an absorbing business.
There was the letter too, and it looked so mysterious and knowing, when
she took it out of her pocket, and it held, as she knew, so much inside,
that to turn it over and over, and think about it, and wonder how it
began, and how it ended, and what it said all through, was another
matter of constant occupation. Between the bracelet and the letter,
there was quite enough to do without thinking of anything else; and
admiring each by turns, Dolly went on gaily.

As she passed through a wicket-gate to where the path was narrow, and
lay between two hedges garnished here and there with trees, she heard
a rustling close at hand, which brought her to a sudden stop. She
listened. All was very quiet, and she went on again--not absolutely
frightened, but a little quicker than before perhaps, and possibly not
quite so much at her ease, for a check of that kind is startling.

She had no sooner moved on again, than she was conscious of the same
sound, which was like that of a person tramping stealthily among bushes
and brushwood. Looking towards the spot whence it appeared to come, she
almost fancied she could make out a crouching figure. She stopped
again. All was quiet as before. On she went once more--decidedly faster
now--and tried to sing softly to herself. It must be the wind.

But how came the wind to blow only when she walked, and cease when she
stood still? She stopped involuntarily as she made the reflection, and
the rustling noise stopped likewise. She was