CHAPTER II.

How pretty that Braeton dining-room always looked in the morning time; never prettier, though, than when Maud came into it the Friday after Stephen Roden went away. There had been rain in the night-she was afraid there would, for the sun had gone down behind a pile of yellow clouds the evening before; but it had cleared away now, and left nothing but a fresher tint of green on the grass and woods, and a sweeter fragrance in the air that came wafting in through the open glass door. Stray leaves from the great bush rose outside the window, danced in and out, and fluttered round the room, strewing the carpet with their pinky bloom, and lying all soft and dewy on the shining white damask cloth. The sunlight, too, came flashing in, bright and merry;

it smiled a sparkling welcome to the silver urn; it flickered over the snowy china; it dazzled in and out upon the fretwork of the crystal ewer; then on to Maud's stand of freshly gathered flowers, where, after dancing about from spray to spray of moss and fern, and dallying with the long drooping clusters of fuchsia until they drooped lower still and blushed a deeper crimson, and peeping here and there through the delicate jasmine flowers, and running over the glossy leaves of the evergreen barberry, making them shine again, it finally nestled down into the heart of a half-blown white rose, and amused itself by putting little fanciful spangles and sparkles in the dew-drops which lay there still. The sparrows that Maud had taught to come for their breakfast hopped coyly to her feet as she sat within the open door, and looked up askance with their bright little black eyes, first at her, and then at the plate of crumbs which lay beside her, until one saucy fellow, more adventurous than the rest, came bodily into the room, and boldly set to work upon it. And Maud's pet canary, whose cage was in the verandah above, swung merrily back

wards and forwards upon his ring, and loudly vociferated his praises of the sunshiny morning.

There yet lay upon Braeton plantation and the Lingold Wood the soft blue haze of early day, the sparkle of dew, and a delicate aërial mist that was creeping slowly down into the valley, leaving sweep after sweep of foliage clearly outlined upon the cloudless sky. There were tints of rose and pearl and grey upon the distant Downshire hills, fading as day grew stronger, but still very lovely. And all was so sweet, so fresh, so pure, no sadness upon anything within or without, as Maud sat there waiting for the rest to come in to breakfast; whiling away the time by mending one of Stephen Roden's gloves, ready to give him the next evening when he should call in on his way from the Marbrook station.

When she had finished she put her own little hand into it, and laughed her merry, pleasant, glad-hearted laugh, as she tried to fit her delicate taper fingers into the heavy markings that his great ones had made. What a strong, nervy hand it was that that glove belonged to! what an honest, white hand!-whiter far from all bribe or

action base than many a duke's. What a faithful hand to hold her up all along the rough road of life, and to clear away the thorns from her path, and to shield her from all danger! And then she laid her cheek down upon the glove, and smiled that pleasant smile again. Only a few more hours, and he would be back. She had kept his flowers fresh and sweet; the rosebud at the garden gate was pushing one little faint streak of crimson colour through its thick green leaves, just as he said it would. Stephen's rose, she had learned to call it. It should hang there until he came back to reach it for her, and then she would keep it always as a remembrance of that June morning.

Which last thing, indeed, she did.

It was strange how she longed for his coming back again. She had had a homeless sort of feeling for the last few days in thinking that he was so far away; that, if anything had befallen them, he could not come to her at once. Last night, praying as she always did for those who were near and dear to her, the thought of him came very closely, and with it this longing for his real,

true, comforting presence; and she prayed that they might never have to say good-bye to each other any more, but that wherever he went again, to hardship, or suffering, or enjoyment, she might go with him too - always his, always with himthat he might be her stay and solace everywhere, all their life through. And still, as she lay down to rest, this longing thought came again and again, shaping itself, even upon her dreams, into a prayer that they might never have to bid each other farewell any more.

"God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers." So He did on this, and Maud remembered it long years afterwards.

"Any letters, Joan ?" she said, as the little maid came in with the first instalment of breakfast in the shape of a basket of rosy strawberries.

"No, Miss; only this here paper for Master, that the boy's brought from Marbrook. And, please, Miss, him and Miss Mabel has gone round by Glinton for a walk, and left word they wouldn't be back while nine, so you must even have to wait for breakfast."

"Very well, Joan, it does not signify. Here,