d of ugliness. It is certainly modifiable by dress."

So saying, I lay down the hand-glass, and walk sedately down-stairs,
holding my head stiffly erect, and looking over my shoulder, like a
child, at the effect of my blue train sweeping down the steps after me.

Arrived in my boudoir, I go and stand by the window, though there are
yet ten minutes before he is due. Once I open the casement to listen,
but hastily close it again, afraid lest the wintry wind should ruffle
the satin smoothness of my hair, or push the mob-cap awry. Then I sit
carefully down, and, harshly repulsing an overture on the part of Vick
to jump into my lap, fix my eyes upon the dark bare boughs of the tall
and distant elms, from between which I shall see him steal into sight.
The time ticks slowly on. He is due now. Five more lame, crawling
minutes--ten!--no sign of him. Again I rise, unclose the casement, and
push my matronly head a little way out to listen. Yes! yes! there is the
distant but not doubtful sound of a horse's four hoofs smartly trotting
and splashing along the muddy road. Three minutes more, and the sun
catches and brightly gleams on one of the quickly-turning wheels of the
dog-cart as it rolls toward me, between the wintry trees.

At first I cannot see the occupants; the boughs and twigs interpose to
hide them; but presently the dog-cart emerges into the open. There is
only one person in it!

At first I decline to believe my own eyes. I rub them. I stretch my head
farther out. Alas! self-deception is no longer possible: the groom
returns as he went--alone. Roger has _not_ come!

The dog-cart turns toward the stables, and I run to the bell and pull it
violently. I can hardly wait till it is answered. At last, after an
interval, which seems to me like twenty minutes, but which that false,
cold-blooded clock proclaims to be _two_, the footman enters.

"Sir Roger has not come," I say more affirmatively than interrogatively,
for I have no doubt on the subject. "Why did not the groom wait for the
next train?"

"If you please, my lady, Sir Roger _has_ come."

"_Has come!_" repeat I, in astonishment, opening my eyes; "then where is
he?"

"He is walking up, my lady."

"What! all the way from Bishopsthorpe?" cry I, incredulously, thinking
of the five miry miles that intervene between us and that station.
"_Impossible!_"

"No, my lady, not all the way; only from Mrs. Huntley's."

I feel the color rushing away from my cheeks, and