“She cannot be more than twenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle to himself. “There is not the faintest trace of a line on her brow, and her lips are parted just as are the lips of a child. I thought she was older when I saw her first. She cannot be more than twenty. Is she a widow? Has she loved and lost? No; that cannot be. She spoke of unkindness, cruelty, but not of loss. Can she have been betrayed, as the youngest and fairest are at times? No; there is a ring on her finger, and she speaks as one who has been a wife.” It was a ringing laugh that disturbed his reverie--a light, silvery sound that startled him more than words could tell. It was long since he had heard such a sound, long since such a laugh had echoed through the trees of that silent garden. He looked around in surprise at her. She blushed and smiled. “I thought I had forgotten how to laugh,” she said. “I am quite as much surprised at myself as you can be at me.” “What was it amused you?” he asked, quietly. And she showed him the nest with the live little birds in it. “All the little mouths were open at once,” she said, “and the poor mother seemed so anxious to fill them. I had not seen such a pretty sight for years.” He smiled, too, but it was rather at her childish delight than at anything else; but as he rode home his thoughts lingered with her. “What can have happened?” he wondered. “Who can have been unkind to a creature so loving, so beautiful, so tender?” That same day he rode over to Aldenmere. The contrast between these two fair women always amused and pleased him. Lady Hermione, so sweet, so wise, so womanly, her fair Saxon loveliness so full of calm and serenity, lofty, polished and graceful. Juliet Payton, with her dark, glowing beauty all afire, suppressed passion, genius, poetry, all made subservient to the one thing for which she cared most--the charm of solitude. For the first time since Sir Ronald’s departure, he saw a cloud on the fair face of the Lady of Aldenmere. “Have you had news of Sir Ronald?” he said, for knowing how completely heart and soul were absorbed in her husband, he could not understand anything else having the power to sadden her. “No,” she replied, “not news direct. There was a long article in _The Saturday_ about the expedition, saying it was very probable if they did all they intended and hoped to do they would not return for another year and a half yet. Ronald will be quite bronzed and so greatly changed.” “Yes; and the prolonged absence, though painful, will do him good,” said Kenelm, anxious to chase the shadow from that fairest face. “Is it that which makes you thoughtful, Lady Alden?” “No,” she replied, “I have been busy all day searching for what is, I fear, a lost document.” “What is it?” he asked. “Remember, all your business troubles are to rest on my shoulders.” “It is a lease, or agreement, or promise, I cannot tell which,” she replied. “You have heard, perhaps, of May Thorne, who used to be waiting maid to poor Clarice?”