leman in gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Shall I introduce you to my father?" said Miss White to her companion;
and, after a word or two, they passed on.

"I think papa is invaluable to Colonel Ross," said she: "he is as good
as an auctioneer at telling the value of china. Look at this beautiful
heath. Mrs. Ross is very proud of her heaths."

The small white fingers scarcely touched the beautiful blossoms of the
plant; but which were the more palely roseate and waxen? If one were to
grasp that hand--in some sudden moment of entreaty, in the sharp joy of
reconciliation, in the agony of farewell--would it not be crushed like a
frail flower?

"There is our elm," said she, lightly. "Mrs. Ross and I regard it as our
own, we have sketched it so often."

They had emerged from the conservatory into a small square room, which
was practically a continuation of the drawing-room, but which was
decorated in pale blue and silver, and filled with a lot of knick-knacks
that showed it was doubtless Mrs. Ross's boudoir. And out there, in the
clear June sunshine, lay the broad greensward behind Prince's Gate, with
the one splendid elm spreading his broad branches into the blue sky, and
throwing a soft shadow on the corner of the gardens next to the house.
How sweet and still it was!--as still as the calm, clear light in this
girl's eyes. There was no passion there, and no trouble; only the light
of a June day, and of blue skies, and a peaceful soul. She rested the
tips of her fingers on a small rosewood table that stood by the window:
surely, if a spirit ever lived in any table, the wood of this table must
have thrilled to its core.

And had he given all this trouble to this perfect creature merely that
he should look at a tree? and was he to say some ordinary thing about an
ordinary elm to tell her how grateful he was?

"It is like a dream to me," he said, honestly enough, "since I came to
London. You seem always to have sunlight and plenty of fine trees and
hot-house flowers. But I suppose you have winter, like the rest us?"

"Or we should very soon tire of all this, beautiful as it is," said
she; and she looked rather wistfully out on the broad, still gardens.
"For my part, I should very soon tire of it. I should think there was
more excitement in the wild storms and the dark nights of the north;
there must be a strange fascination in the short winter days among the
mountains, and the long winter nights by the side of the Atlantic."