'I will not press you to answer me now, dearest Ida; you are pale and seem so weary. I will go, but ere I do so, give me one kiss in memory of the past, if not to encourage hope for the future.' She lifted her sweet face to his, and there was infinite tenderness, but no passion in the kiss she accorded him so frankly; and Vane was but too sensible of that; while a sound like a deep sigh fell at the same moment on the ears of both. 'Who sighed?' she asked, startled, in the fear that they were overseen or overheard; 'did you, Jerry?' 'No; yourself, perhaps, darling.' 'Nay--I sigh often enough, but I did not do so now, Jerry.' 'Most strange! We must have deceived ourselves, for here are people coming,' he added, as steps were heard in the outer drawing-room. 'You will give me a final answer, then?' he urged, in a deep, soft whisper. 'Yes.' 'When?' 'This evening.' 'Bless you, darling Ida. Where? 'After dinner--we dine at six--say eight o'clock, in the rhododendron walk.' And as she left him, on her pouting lip and in her grey-blue eyes--eyes that seemed black at night--Jerry thought that the sadness was gone, and replaced by the beautiful smile of old. Unheard by both, the dressing-bell for dinner had already rung, and several of the sportsmen, Sir John Oriel, Colonel Rakes, and others, entered the room. Among them was Major Desmond, the languid, irrepressible, and imperturbable Desmond--who, en route from town, had turned up for a single day's cover shooting at Carnaby Court. Overcome by the new tide of his own thoughts, Jerry Vane hurriedly left them to talk over their hits, misses, experiences, and exploits of the day, the results of which had filled a small-sized pony cart. He retired to his room to dress, and threw open the window to admit the autumn breeze, that it might cool his flushed cheeks and throbbing temples. The kiss of that beloved lip--albeit one so coldly given--yet seemed to linger on his, and all nature around him seemed to grow lighter now that hope had swelled in his heart. Lit by the evening sun, the leaves of the masses of wild roses and other creepers that clambered round the mullioned window of his room, seemed to murmur pleasantly on the passing breeze, that brought also the chimes of the village spire, the voices of the exulting birds, and the pleasant rustle of the old oak trees in the chase. To the ear of Jerry Vane there seemed to be a melody in all the voices of nature now, for his own heart was all aglow with joy. CHAPTER XVI. 'JEALOUSY CRUEL AS THE GRAVE.'