detested her, of
that she was sure also. No woman can ever endure the thought that she is
disliked or despised by the relatives of the man she loves. And poor
Elsie, against her own will, had fallen in love with Arnold Wayne.

Against her own will! And Elsie had always fancied that her will was so
strong. She had had several strong likings, and had found out (before it
was too late) that a strong liking is only a distant cousin to love. For
the first time in her life she was beginning to feel that terrible
self-distrust which is love's cruel companion. And it is a painful
moment for a woman when she learns that the sound of one voice can set
her heart throbbing and drive the colour out of her cheeks.

Mrs. Lennard stoutly affirmed that she was quite equal to walking to
church and back again. Nobody should get pony-chaises out for her on a
Sunday. So the two old ladies and the younger one came out into the
lane, just in time to see the flutter of summer gowns on the
meadow-path. The Danforths were ahead of them. Yes; and Mrs. Verdon,
slim and cool and graceful in a dainty costume of blue-grey cashmere--a
dress which wrung unwilling admiration even from the rector's wife.

"That straw-coloured woman dresses well," she said to Elsie. "What a
miracle of self-worship she is!"

"But she has a kind heart," Elsie answered. "Think of her love for
Jamie."

The boy, trotting by nurse's side, had gone on in front of Mrs. Verdon
and the Danforths. They were moving so slowly along the path that the
party from Willow Farm instinctively began to saunter. There was a
consciousness among them that it would be best for Miss Kilner and the
Danforths not to meet too often.

But if they were sauntering, some one behind them was coming on with
rapid strides. Arnold Wayne joined them with a cheery greeting.

"You are early," he said. "Do you keep your clocks too fast at the Farm?
Miss Kilner, isn't this pure air delicious after London?"

Mrs. Lennard allowed herself to be displaced, and he stepped close to
Elsie's side. It was a sultry morning; but the odour of the grass, fresh
with half-hidden streams, was in the air. The meadow was dotted with
yellow-rayed flowers, and in the moist places the tall bulrush lifted
its dark brown head.

"Yes," Elsie answered, with a sigh of satisfaction; "it makes it hard to
think of going back to a 'long, unlovely street.'"

"You are not going back yet," he said quickly. And the earnest look
which