n so long
denied, that by their very vehemence they frighten Dulce. She takes
Portia in her arms, and clings to her; and, pressing her lips to her
cheek, whispers to her fondly that she is forgiven, and that from her
soul she pities her. Thus peace is restored between these two.

CHAPTER XX.

"Time tries the troth in everything."
--THOMAS TUSSER.

THE voice comes to her distinctly across the sward, browned by Winter's
frown, and over the evergreens that sway and rustle behind her back.

"Shall I answer?" says Dulce to herself, half uncertainly; and then she
hesitates, and then belies the old adage because she is not lost, but
decides on maintaining a discreet silence. "If he comes," she tells
herself, "he will only talk, _talk_, TALK! and, at his best, he is
tiresome; and then he worries so that really life becomes a burden with
him near. And the day, though cold, is bright and frosty and delicious,
and all it should be at Christmas time, and when one is wrapped in furs
one doesn't feel the cold," and she really means to enjoy herself with
her book, and now--

"Dulce!" comes the voice again, only nearer this time, and even more
pathetic in its anxiety, and Dulce moves uneasily. Perhaps, after all,
she ought to answer. Has she not promised many things. Shall she answer
or not, or--

This time her hesitation avails her nothing; a step can be heard
dangerously close, and then a figure comes up to her very back, and
peers through the thick hedge of evergreens, and finally Stephen makes
his way through them and stands before her.

He is flushed and half angry. He is uncertain how to translate the
extreme unconcern with which she hails him. _Did_ she hear him call, or
did she not? That is the question. And Stephen very properly feels that
more than the fate of a nation depends upon the solution of this
mystery.

"Oh! here you are at last," he says, in a distinctly aggrieved tone. "I
have been calling you for the last hour. Didn't you hear me?"

When one has been straining one's lungs in a vain endeavor to be heard
by a beloved object, one naturally magnifies five minutes into an hour.

Dulce stares at him in a bewildered fashion. Her manner, indeed,
considering all things, is perfect.

"Why didn't you answer me?" asks Mr. Gower, feeling himself justified in
throwing some indignation into this speech.

"Were you calling me?" she asks, with the utmost innocence, lett