ng to
herself as she sat by the fire. "There would have been no necessity for
his leaving England again had he done so. It cannot be because I am
rich and he poor, surely? He is not the sort of man to let such a mere
accident as that stand in the way if he really cared for me. No, it is
that he does not care for me except as a sort of sister. But still--he
said he had kept his _last_ evening for me--at least he cares for no one
else _more_, and that is something. Who knows--perhaps to-morrow--when
it comes to really saying good-bye----?" and a faint flush of renewed
hope rose to her cheeks and a brighter gleam to her eyes.

The door opened, and a gray-haired man-servant came in gently.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he said apologetically; "I was not sure if
Major Graham had gone. Will he be here to dinner, if you please?"

"Not to-night, Ambrose. I shall be quite alone. But Major Graham will
dine here to-morrow; he does not leave till Thursday morning."

"Very well, ma'am," said Ambrose, as he discreetly retired.

He had been many years in the Medway household. He had respected his
late master, but for his young mistress he had actual affection, and
being of a somewhat sentimental turn, he had constructed for her benefit
a very pretty little romance of which Major Graham was the hero. It had
been a real blow to poor Ambrose to learn that the gentleman in question
was on the eve of his departure without any sign of a satisfactory third
volume, and he was rather surprised to see that Mrs. Medway seemed this
evening in better spirits than for some time past.

"It's maybe understood between themselves," he reflected, as he made
his way back to his own quarters. "I'm sure I hope so, for he's a real
gentleman and she's as sweet a lady as ever stepped, which I should know
if any one should, having seen her patience with poor master as was
really called for through his long illness. She deserves a happy ending,
and I'm sure I hope she may have it, poor lady."

"To-morrow at the usual time," meaning five o'clock or thereabouts,
brought Kenneth for his last visit. Anne had been expecting him with an
anxiety she was almost ashamed to own to herself, yet her manner was so
calm and collected that no one could have guessed the tumult of hope
and fear, of wild grief at his leaving, of intense longing for any
word--were it but a word--to prove that all was not on _her_ side only.

"I could bear his being away--for years even, if