d of his momentary dimness of
sight, he found himself obliged to stammer out something: "You managed
the wicket by yourself this time." The girl laughed brightly. Ellington
felt bound to go on speaking--

"You are going over to the Dene?"

"Yes; I think I'll take the short cut through the Ride."

"I think, if you don't mind, we may as well go by the Three
Plantations." He said "we" with the utmost ease, and, noticing no sign
of dissent, he walked on by the side of the girl, and a new chapter of
his life began.

Neither of them could tell exactly how they came to be walking together,
yet each of them would have been disappointed had it not fallen out so.
Neither of them had made a definite resolve to meet the other, but the
girl had made most calculations on the event. Within a month from that
day the pair were strolling under the gloom of the firs in the Three
Plantations. This time young Mr. Ellington had his arm round his
companion's waist; her tall figure was leaned towards him.

They were talking low, and the rustling sound of their whispers echoed a
little beneath the sombre arch of the trees.

They came to the little bridge which crossed the head of the Dean, and
then he took both her hands and said, "Now, good-bye; to-morrow at the
high end of the New Plantation." They had got to daily meetings within
that short month.

"I'll be there. You won't mind if I'm a bit behind time? Sometimes they
want me, and I don't care for my father to ask where I'm going."

"I've promised to wait for you, darling, half a lifetime, if need be.
Why should I grudge an hour?"

This question was not articulately answered, but the reply was
satisfactory. Then the couple parted.

So it happened that in a few brief weeks this quiet young man had
drifted into a disgraceful intrigue. He did not think it disgraceful,
because he had not reflected at all. The future was barred to him, and
he lived from one day to another content with the joy that the day
brought. He had made promises with rash profusion, and his promises had
been believed. Further and further he had been drawn, till the fire of
his blood made him fancy that he was proceeding voluntarily.

To Mary Casely the whole affair seemed quite natural. She knew nothing
about the pitiful stories of village maidens which make so much of the
stock of fiction. She had never read a story, so she fancied that her
secret meetings were part of the fixed order of life. She happened to