ravelled path to the
stables, where the horses, one by one, were brought out into the
courtyard for their inspection. In anticipation of this hour there was a
blood bay for Honora, which Chiltern had bought in New York. She gave a
little cry of delight when she saw the horse shining in the sunlight, his
nostrils in the air, his brown eyes clear, his tapering neck patterned
with veins. And then there was the dairy, with the fawn-coloured cows and
calves; and the hillside pastures that ran down to the river, and the
farm lands where the stubbled grain was yellowing. They came back by the
path that wound through the trees and shrubbery bordering the lake to the
walled garden, ablaze in the mellow sunlight with reds and purples,
salvias and zinnias, dahlias, gladioli, and asters.

Here he left her for a while, sitting dreamily on the stone bench. Mrs.
Hugh Chiltern, of Grenoble! Over and over she repeated that name to
herself, and it refused somehow to merge with her identity. Yet was she
mistress of this fair domain; of that house which had sheltered them race
for a century, and the lines of which her eye caressed with a loving
reverence; and the Chiltern pearls even then lay hidden around her
throat.

Her thoughts went back, at this, to the gentle lady to whom they had
belonged, and whose look began again to haunt her. Honora's superstition
startled her. What did it mean, that look? She tried to recall where she
had seen it before, and suddenly remembered that the eyes of the old
butler had held something not unlike it. Compassionate--this was the only
word that would describe it. No, it had not proclaimed her an intruder,
though it may have been ready to do so the moment before her appearance;
for there was a note of surprise in it--surprise and compassion.

This was the lady in whose footsteps she was to walk, whose charities and
household cares she was to assume! Tradition, order, observance,
responsibility, authority it was difficult to imagine these as a logical
part of the natural sequence of her life. She would begin to-day, if God
would only grant her these things she had once contemned, and that seemed
now so precious. Her life--her real life would begin to-day. Why not? How
hard she would strive to be worthy of this incomparable gift! It was
hers, hers! She listened, but the only answer was the humming of the bees
in the still September morning.

Chiltern's voice aroused her. He was standing in the breakfast