Perhaps, had he found her there, Sir Ronald might have said less. It is not for me to explain how the mere fact of not being able to find anything the moment you require it enhances its value. Before he had looked for Miss Severn twenty minutes Sir Ronald had begun to believe it was necessary to his happiness that he should find her. Far down in the shady depths of a long alley, he caught a glimpse of her dress. He hastened forward, and then stood for a few minutes to watch her, thinking to himself no poet or painter had ever dreamed of a fairer picture. She was leaning against the rugged trunk of an old tree; green ivy clasped it round, and trailing scarlet creepers crept from bough to bough. It was a poem in itself to see the white, rounded arm, the beautiful face and golden head resting against the old tree. As he came nearer to her, Sir Ronald saw that her passionate, lovely face was wet with tears. CHAPTER XIX. AS A DROWNING MAN. Sir Ronald went gently to her and called her by name. Whatever her dream might be, it was so deep that she had not heard the sound of his footsteps or the rustling of the boughs. “Clarice,” he said, and when she raised her head and saw him, the change that came over her face was so sudden and so great it dazzled him. “You, Sir Ronald!” she said, and then he knew that she had been dreaming of him. He went nearer to her, and they strode side by side under the shade of the old tree. “Clarice,” he repeated, “there are tears in your eyes and on your lashes. You have been alone in this quiet place, weeping. What is wrong?” “Nothing,” she replied; “but my thoughts were very sad ones, and tears are a luxury at times.” “They should not be for you, for whom all things bright and beautiful must have been made. Tell me what those sad thoughts were.” A mound of dead and dying leaves lay at her feet. Every vigorous breath of wind brought fresh leaves down, yellow and red. She pointed to them. “Every autumn for the last four years I have watched the leaves of this tree fall,” she said, “and the same thoughts have always pursued me.” “You will not tell me what they are?” he said. “I cannot. Do you not know how impossible it is to put those thoughts into words that we hardly understand ourselves?” “Clarice,” he said, gently, “do you know what I have sought you for?” “No,” she replied, and he noticed something of dreaminess in her voice and look. “I came over to Mount Severn this evening especially to ask you to be my wife.” Something like a half-hysterical sob came from her lips. “Your wife! But you say nothing of loving me.” “Should I ask you to be my wife if I did not love you, Clarice?” he asked, carried away, despite himself, by the passion of her words and the love in her face. He never forgot her half-tearful joy. “You love me, Ronald! Do not deceive me; do not tell me that unless it is quite true.”