as you don't over-tire
yourself. You don't look very strong, if I may say it.'

'Oh, I am very well,' was the mechanical reply.

After a few more remarks the landlady took away the teapot. Emily then
drew out a cloth from the cupboard, and other things needful for her
evening meal. Presently the tea-pot returned filled with hot water.
Emily was glad to pour out a cup and drink it, but she ate nothing. In a
short time she rang the bell to have the things removed. This time a
little girl appeared.

'Eh, Miss,' was the exclamation of the child, on examining the state of
the table, 'you haven't eaten nothing!'

'No, I don't want anything just now, Milly,' was the quiet reply.

'Shall I leave the bread and butter out?'

'No, thank you. I'll have some later.'

'Is there anything I could get you, Miss?'

'Nothing, Milly. Take the things away, there's a good girl.'

Emily had seated herself on the couch again; when the girl was gone she
lay down, her hands beneath her head. Long, long since she had had so
much to think of as to-night.

At first she had found Wilfrid a good deal altered. He looked so much
older; his bearded face naturally caused that. But before he had spoken
twenty words how well she knew that the change was only of appearance.
His voice was a little deeper, but the tone and manner of his speaking
carried her back to the days when they had first exchanged words when
she was a governess at The Firs in Surrey, and Wilfrid was the
interesting young fellow who had overworked himself at college. The
circumstances of to-day's meeting had reproduced something of the
timidity with which he had approached her when they were strangers. This
afternoon she had scarcely looked into his eyes, but she felt their gaze
upon her, and felt their power as of old--ah, fifty-fold stronger!

Was he married? It was more than possible. Nothing had escaped him
inconsistent with that, and he was not likely to speak of it directly.
It would account for the nature of his embarrassment in talking with
her; her keen insight distinguished something more than the hesitation
which common memories would naturally cause. And that pressure of the
hand at parting which had made her heart leap with such agony, might
well be his way of intimating to her that this meeting would have no
sequel. Was it to be expected that he should remain unmarried? Had she
hoped it?

It could not be called hope, but for two or three years something had