It is quite a month later. August, hot and sunny, is reigning with quite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowing full well that the end of the summer is nigh. The air is stifling; up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of the late flowers. Perpetua moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocks in her soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in a languid manner to place in the bosom of her frock. There they rest, a spot of blood color upon their white ground. Lady Baring, on the death of her elder brother, had left town for the seclusion of her country home, carrying Perpetua with her. She had grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed (before Sir Hastings' death) that Thaddeus was in love with the young heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, had not suffered in any way through the fact of Sir Thaddeus having now become the head of the family. Perpetua, having idly plucked a few last pansies, looked at them, and as idly flung them away, goes on her listless way through the gardens. A whole _long_ month and not one word from him! Are his social duties now so numerous that he has forgotten he has a ward? "Well," emphatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big white hat, "_some_ people have strange views about duty." She has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptingly cool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her to turn. "They told me you were here," says the professor, coming up with her. He is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his new mourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air of having been severely looked after--that Perpetua feels at home with him at once. "I have been here for some time," says she calmly. "A whole month, isn't it?" "Yes, I know. Were you going into that green little place. It looks cool." It is cool, and particularly empty. One small seat occupies the back of it, and nothing else at all, except the professor and his ward. "Perpetua!" says he, turning to her. His tone is low, impassioned. "I have come. I could not come sooner, and I _would_ not write. How could I put it all on paper? You remember that last evening?" "I remember," says she faintly. "And all you said?" "All _you_ said." "I said nothing. I did not dare. _Then_ I was too poor a man, too insignificant to dare to lay bare to you the thoughts, the fears, the hopes that were killing me."