Both had fair hair, both were fair of face, and yet there was a wonderful difference between them. Clarice Severn had a proud, passionate beauty all her own. Lady Hermione’s face was arch, piquant, spiritual, and everything else, by turns. They both started when Lady Lorriston and Sir Ronald entered the arbor. Clarice Severn’s face flushed hotly, then grew pale. Lady Hermione looked very serious for one moment, then she held out her hand. “I cannot pretend not to know you, Sir Ronald,” she said, “my old opponent. I am glad to see you once again.” “I will not be called your opponent,” he said, holding the little hand in his. “I was always your devoted slave and adorer.” “Then slaves must dispute a great deal, if you were a fair specimen, Sir Ronald. You remember Clarice, I mean Miss Severn. Mamma, you are going to remind me that we are all grown up, and must be proper; I shall not forget.” “You have changed, Miss Severn, more than Lady Hermione has,” he said. “That means, Clarice, that you have improved, and I have not.” Yet, while she was speaking defiantly, she was looking earnestly at him. How handsome he was--he was no curled and perfumed darling--but with the beauty that descends from long generations. She remembered the mouth that she had thought more beautiful than that of a Greek god; and suddenly her face burned, as she remembered how often he had kissed her and called her his little wife. Lady Lorriston was summoned to attend to some other visitors. She went away, leaving the three in the summer-house among the roses. “How beautiful this is,” said Sir Ronald; “how happy I am to be at home again. There is no land so fair and dear as old England. I can hardly realize the change that has come over us all; we parted children and we meet----” “As children of a larger growth,” interposed Lady Hermione. “I dared not have said so,” laughed Sir Ronald. “Miss Severn, I am grieved that I have not been able to call upon your mother yet. I shall try to do so to-morrow.” The girl’s face flushed with pleasure when he spoke to her. Suddenly there came a stronger breath of wind that shook the chestnut trees and rustled in the limes. Lady Hermione looked up as one who hears and loves a familiar sound. “I wonder,” she said, “how I wonder what it is the trees are always saying to each other! Look at those tall heads bent mysteriously together, every leaf trembling with the importance of what it is saying. Just outside Leeholme there are two tall oak trees that have stood for centuries. They always seem to me to be talking of what has passed in the village, and lamenting together that the world has changed so terribly since they were young.” Sir Ronald looked into the lovely, glowing face. “You have as many sweet fancies as ever,” he said, eagerly. “I always told you you had the gift of poetry.” “The pity is,” said Clarice Severn, “that poetry and common sense so often clash. What reason is there in talking trees?”