“I was just wondering whether we should see you to-day or not, Sir Ronald,” she said. “It would be a dark, dreary day that would not bring me to Leeholme,” he said; and, again, in her foolish hope and foolish love, she chose to think the words referred to herself. “Clarice,” he said, his deep voice broken with emotion, “you know what brings me here day after day.” Her heart beat so quickly she could hardly reply. Believe me, nothing misled her but her own vanity and her own love. “I know,” she said, faintly. “I shall not bear my suspense much longer,” he continued; “I am going to try my fate. I am sure you wish me godspeed.” “He is going to ask me to be his wife,” she said to herself; but even then, in the delirium of happiness which that thought gave her, she wondered why he could not ask her there and then. “Thank you, Clarice; the good wishes of a pure-hearted woman always seem to me like prayers.” Then he passed on, and was soon out of sight. Sir Ronald rode home again; he looked at the familiar trees as he passed; he smiled at the nodding branches and the fluttering leaves. “When next I pass you by,” he said, “I shall know my fate.” He could not rest until that letter was written; all the inspiration of his love was upon him as he wrote it; the burning words that had risen so often from his heart to his lips found life; there was no delay in the choice of his expressions. Never since Adam wooed Eve among the bowers of Paradise was love more deeply or more strongly told. A doubt must have crossed his mind once, for he said: “If you say me nay, Hermione, I shall not importune you--a queen has the right of denial to her subject if the favor asked be too great. You have that same right over me. I shall not importune you, sweet. I shall not drag my prayer again and again to your feet to be denied; but you will mar my whole life, and change it into bitterest anguish. But I need not write this. What are the little birds singing to me? That my darling would never have let me kiss her lips until she meant to be mine.” Hour after hour passed, and he was still writing. It seemed to him that he was in her actual presence, and the sweet, fiery words flowed on. Then, when the letter was finished, it was too large to be sent by post. “An envelope of that size and thickness would be sure to attract attention,” he said to himself. “I will send it by a messenger.” So his most trusty servant was dispatched to Leeholme Park, with orders to deliver the packet into Lady Hermione’s own hand, but not to wait for the answer. But Lady Hermione was not at home, and, after waiting some hours, the groom, beginning to fear Sir Ronald’s displeasure, gave it to the lady’s maid, who, duly impressed by him as to its importance, laid it on Lady Hermione’s dressing-table, feeling sure that her mistress would see it at once when she entered the room.