elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.
--Wordsworth.

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water wraith was shrieking,
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
--Campbell.

There was a bright moon that evening, and Colonel Rolleston and his
daughter were crossing the lake. A yacht passed them, sailing rapidly
before the wind. Some one on board took his hat off.

"Who was that?" asked Cecil.

"It was very like Lascelles," said the Colonel. "I wonder what he is
doing up here."

Cecil's colour rose. The name of Lascelles suggested Bertie. She knew
they usually hunted in couples, and her busy mind was alive with
conjecture. She wondered if the same idea had occurred to her father. She
thought he looked a shade grimmer; but he smoked his cigar in silence,
and a few more pulls from the sinewy arm of the boatman shot them into
Lyndon's Landing. And then it all seemed to Cecil as if the same scene
had been enacted in a previous state of existence. Where before had she
seen his dark figure thrown out just so by the moonlight? Certainly not
in a dream. Could one's life be repeated? She almost felt, by an exertion
of _memory_, she might tell what was coining next.

A deep, calm satisfaction stole over her as Bertie helped her from the
boat, and his eyes sought hers under the stars. She heeded not that
Colonel Rolleston's greeting was apparently cool and formal, nothing
signified--life had suddenly become intense again. What could ruffle the
golden content of the present? Happiness is a great beautifier, and as
she sprang to shore, her graceful figure so undulating and spirited, and
her soul beaming warm in her radiant eyes, he wondered that he could ever
have thought Bluebell more beautiful. She often recurred to him hereafter
just as she stood that night, shrouded in a crimson Colleen Bawn, under
cover of which her hand remained so long in his.

Du Meresq did not stay very late. Both he and Cecil were quiet and
dreamy. To be in the same room again was quite happiness enough for the
present. Mrs. Rolleston also was entirely satisfied, diverted her
husband's attention with creature comforts, and made no effort to detain
Bertie. Given a love affair, and a certain interest in it, the most
unscheming nature becomes Macchiavellian in tact and policy.

And Du Meresq unmoored a canoe and paddled himself off, un