his mother, whom he
possessed?

"Very glad to see you back again, Reginald," said Mrs. Willoughby. "But
surely the southern skies have blanched rather than bronzed your cheeks.
You were not wont to be so pale, Reggie. Ay, there you are more like
your old self" (as a flush of colour spread over his face once more).
"We hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for your
dear mother has been worrying about your long absence.--Is it not so,
Laura?" she said, addressing herself to Mrs. Gower, who now stood beside
them.

"Yes, indeed," was the reply; "I am thankful to have my boy home again.
Lilyfield is a dull place without him."

"Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in
it." And as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see
that her eyes were full of tears.

But Reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying,
"Farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he
went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward
appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there.

But he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were
heard from time to time such as, "Why, Reginald, have you forgotten how
to play tennis?" "Oh, look out, Gower; you are spoiling the game! It was
a shame to miss that ball."

Thus admonished, Reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts,
concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. But no sooner
was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face
and figure of the beautiful foundling of the Black Forest, with her
strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of
the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle
friend Mrs. Willoughby.

Oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out
the remembrance of her and be once more the light-hearted man he had
been ere he heard her story from Sir Richard Stanford!

He had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good
principles, his high-toned soul ("True," he said to himself, "I never
set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint
like my noble mother and my friend Mrs. Willoughby") that he staggered
as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. Dishonest,
cruel, unjust--he, Reginald Gower; was it possible? Ah! his
self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had bot