ent; and on his part that if Mrs. Farquhar would conceal her
delightful Virginia inflection she would pass everywhere at the North for
a Northern woman.

"I hear," she said, later, as they sat alone, "that Mr. Meigs has beat a
retreat, saving nothing but his personal baggage. I think Miss Benson is
a great goose. Such a chance for an establishment and a position! You
didn't half appreciate him."

"I'm afraid I did not."

"Well, it is none of my business; but I hope you understand the
responsibility of the situation. If you do not, I want to warn you about
one thing: don't go strolling off before sunset in the Lovers' Walk. It
is the most dangerous place. It is a fatal place. I suppose every turn
in it, every tree that has a knoll at the foot where two persons can sit,
has witnessed a tragedy, or, what is worse, a comedy. There are legends
enough about it to fill a book. Maybe there is not a Southern woman
living who has not been engaged there once at least. I'll tell you a
little story for a warning. Some years ago there was a famous belle here
who had the Springs at her feet, and half a dozen determined suitors.
One of them, who had been unable to make the least impression on her
heart, resolved to win her by a stratagem. Walking one evening on the
hill with her, the two stopped just at a turn in the walk--I can show you
the exact spot, with a chaperon--and he fell into earnest discourse with
her. She was as cool and repellant as usual. Just then he heard a party
approaching; his chance had come. The moment the party came in sight he
suddenly kissed her. Everybody saw it. The witnesses discreetly turned
back. The girl was indignant. But the deed was done. In half an hour
the whole Springs would know it. She was compromised. No explanations
could do away with the fact that she had been kissed in Lovers' Walk.
But the girl was game, and that evening the engagement was announced in
the drawing-room. Isn't that a pretty story?"

However much Stanhope might have been alarmed at this recital, he
betrayed nothing of his fear that evening when, after walking to the
spring with Irene, the two sauntered along and unconsciously, as it
seemed, turned up the hill into that winding path which has been trodden
by generations of lovers with loitering steps--steps easy to take and so
hard to retrace! It is a delightful forest, the walk winding about on
the edge of the hill, and giving charming prospects of intervales,
stream, and m