d that, as she heard nothing from her lover, it was because--which was
indeed the truth--he was arranging for their future. If it had been fine
she had meant to go to the tree, but as it rained she went quietly to
her room, and let her Priscilla brush her hair for an hour, while she
stared in the old dark glass, seeing not her own pale and exquisite
face, but all sorts of pictures of future happiness. That she must not
tell her old nurse, for the moment, of her good fortune was her one
crumpled rose-leaf, but she had arranged that when she went she would
post a letter at once to her, and Priscilla would, of course, join her
in London, or wherever it was John Derringham would decide that she
should live. The thought of leaving her aunts did not so much trouble
her. The ancient ladies had never made her their companion or encouraged
her to have a single interest in common with them. She was even doubtful
if they would really miss her, so little had they ever taken her into
their lives. For them she was still the child to be kept in her place,
however much she had tried to grow a little nearer. Then her thoughts
turned back to ways and means.

She so often spent the whole day with Cheiron that her absence would not
be remarked upon until bedtime. But then she suddenly remembered, with a
feeling of consternation, that the Professor intended to leave on the
Tuesday in Whitsun week for his annual fortnight in London. If the
household knew of this, it might complicate matters, and was a pity.
However, there was no use speculating about any of these things, since
she did not yet know on which day she was to start--to start for
Paradise--as the wife of her Beloved!

Next morning it was fine again, and she decided she would go towards
their tree, and if John were not there, she would even go on to the
orchard house, because she realized fully the difficulty he would find
in sending her a message.

But he was there waiting for her, in the bright sunlight, and she
thought him the perfection of what a man should look in his well-cut
gray flannels.

John Derringham knew how to dress himself, and had even in his oldest
clothes that nameless, indescribable distinction which seems often to be
the birthright of Englishmen of his class.

The daylight made her timid again; she was no more the imperious goddess
of the night. It was a shy and tender little maiden who nestled into the
protecting strong arms of her lover.

He told her a