ciousness. Even as
when an angler, having hooked a salmon, a monster of the stream, long the
fish bores down impetuous, seeking the sunken rocks, disdainful of the
steel, and the dark wave conceals him; then anon is beheld a gleam of
silver, and again is lost to view, and the heart of the man rejoices--even
so fugitive a glimpse had Logan of what he sought in the depths of
memory. But it fled, and still he was puzzled.

Logan loafed out after luncheon to a seat on the lawn in the shade of a
tree. They were all to be driven over to an Abbey not very far away,
for, indeed, in July, there is little for a man to do in the country.
Logan sat and mused. Looking up he saw Miss Willoughby approaching,
twirling an open parasol on her shoulder. Her face was radiant; of old
it had often looked as if it might be stormy, as if there were thunder
behind those dark eyebrows. Logan rose, but the lady sat down on the
garden seat, and he followed her example.

'This is better than Bloomsbury, Mr. Logan, and cocoa _pour tout potage_:
singed cocoa usually.'

'The _potage_ here is certainly all that heart can wish,' said Logan.

'The chrysalis,' said Miss Willoughby, 'in its wildest moments never
dreamed of being a butterfly, as the man said in the sermon; and I feel
like a butterfly that remembers being a chrysalis. Look at me now!'

'I could look for ever,' said Logan, 'like the sportsman in Keats's
_Grecian Urn_: "For ever let me look, and thou be fair!"'

'I am so sorry for people in town,' said Miss Willoughby. 'Don't you
wish dear old Milo was here?'

Milo was the affectionate nickname--a tribute to her charms--borne by
Miss Markham at St. Ursula's.

'How can I wish that anyone was here but you?' asked Logan. 'But,
indeed, as to her being here, I should like to know in what capacity she
was a guest.'

The Clytemnestra glance came into Miss Willoughby's grey eyes for a
moment, but she was not to be put out of humour.

'To be here as a kinswoman, and an historian, with a maid--fancy me with
a maid!--and everything handsome about me, is sufficiently excellent for
me, Mr. Logan; and if it were otherwise, do you disapprove of the
proceedings of your own Society? But there is Lord Scremerston calling
to us, and a four-in-hand waiting at the door. And I am to sit on the
box-seat. Oh, this is better than the dingy old Record Office all day.'

With these words Miss Willoughby tripped over the sod as lightly as the
Fair