her?"--
he was going to say Violet, but he checked himself.

"I want to see, not Mrs Home, but Violet," said Kennedy; "you know our
engagement is broken off, Cyril; I have only come to say farewell,
before I leave England, perhaps for ever. Call Violet here alone."

Cyril, who had heard of Kennedy's wild ways at college, and of the
dreadful story that had raised against him the suspicion of intended
suicide, hesitated a moment, as though he were half-afraid or unwilling
to fulfil the commission. But Kennedy said to him sorrowfully--"You
need not fear, Cyril, that you will be doing wrong. Tell Frank first,
and then you can stay near, while I speak for a few minutes to your
sister."

Cyril called down his brother from the tree, and told him that Kennedy
was there. "Stay here, Frankie, while I fetch Violet; Edward wants to
bid her good-bye."

He ran off, and said--"Come here, Vi; Frank and I have something to show
you."

"Is it anything very particular?" said Violet, "for I shall disturb
Julian's reading if I go away."

"Yes, something very particular."

"Won't you tell me what?"

"Why, a squirrel's nest for one thing, which Frank has found. Do come."

"You imperious boys, at home for your holidays!" she said, smiling;
"Punch hasn't half cured you of your tyranny to us poor sisters." She
rose to follow him, and when they had gone a few steps, he said--

"Vi, Edward Kennedy is in that little dell there, behind the trees; he
has come, he says, to bid you good-bye."

The sudden announcement startled her, but she only leaned on Cyril's
shoulder, and walked on, while he almost heard the beating of her heart.

"We will stay here, Violet; you see him there." Cyril pointed to a
tree, against whose trunk Kennedy was leaning, with his eyes bent upon
the ground, looking at the red splashes on the withered leaves, and the
golden buds embroidered on "elf-needled mat of moss." Hearing the sound
of footsteps he raised his head, and a moment after he was by Violet's
side.

Taking her hand without a word, while her bosom shook with deep sobs as
she saw his pale face and maimed hand, he led her to the gnarled and
serpentine roots of a great oak, and seated her there, while he sat
lowly at her feet upon the red ground, "With beddings of the pining
umbrage tinged."

How was it that she did not shrink from him? How was it that she seemed
content to rest close beside him, and suffered her hand to rest upon his
should