unch to any one and every one without
partiality; although afterward no one can remember what it was she was
so eloquent about.

"Tedcastle not come?" she says, presently, catching Marcia's eye. "I
quite thought he was here. What an adorable boy he was! I do hope he is
not changed. If India has altered him, it will be quite too bad."

"He may come yet," replies Marcia; "though I now think it unlikely.
When writing he said to-day, or to-morrow; and with him that always
means to-morrow. He is fond of putting off; his second thoughts are
always his best."

"Always," thinks Molly, angrily, feeling suddenly a keen sense of sure
disappointment. What does she know about him? After all he said on
parting he must, he _will_ come to-day.

Yet somehow, spite of this comforting conclusion, her spirits sink, her
smile becomes less ready, her luncheon grows flavorless. Something
within compels her to believe that not until the morrow shall she see
her lover.

When they leave the dining-room she creeps away unnoticed, and, donning
her hat, sallies forth alone into the pleasant wood that surrounds the
house.

For a mile or two she walks steadily on, crunching beneath her feet
with a certain sense of vicious enjoyment those early leaves that
already have reached death. How very monotonous all through is a big
wood! Trees, grass, sky overhead! Sky, grass, trees.

She pulls a few late wild flowers that smile up at her coaxingly, and
turns them round and round within her fingers, not altogether tenderly.

What a fuss poets, and painters, and such-like, make about flowers,
wild ones especially! When all is said, there is a terrible sameness
about them; the same little pink ones here, the same little blue ones
there; here the inevitable pale yellow, there the pure warm violet.
Well, no doubt there is certainly a wonderful variety--but still----

Looking up suddenly from her weak criticism, she sees coming quickly
toward her--very close to her--Teddy Luttrell.

With a glad little cry, she flings the ill-treated flowers from her and
runs to him with hands outstretched.

"You have come," she cries, "after all! I _knew_ you would;
although she said you wouldn't. Oh, Teddy, I had _quite_ given you
up."

Luttrell takes no notice of this contradictory speech. With his arms
round her, he is too full of the intense happiness of meeting after
separation the beloved, to heed mere words. His eyes are fastened on
her perfect face.

How