Burgoyne turns, and sees a lady in a very smart bonnet, full of spring flowers, and with a red _en tout cas_--for they have now issued into the day's potent beam--shading her rosy face; a lady whose appearance presents about as wide a contrast to the serious and inky figure he had expected to see as it is well possible to imagine. Cecilia, indeed, is looking, what her maid admiringly pronounced her before sending her forth to triumph, "very dressy." Mr. Wilson is black, certainly--but, then, clergymen always are black--and he still has a band upon his hat; but it is a very narrow one--sorrow nearing its vanishing-point. In answer to his daughter's joyous apostrophe, he answers: "'Sh, Cecilia! do not talk so loud. How are you, Jim?" And then the meeting is over--that first meeting which Jim had shrunk from with such inexpressible apprehension--as certain to be so fraught with intolerable emotion; with calls upon him that he would not be able to answer; with baring of incurable wounds. The contrast with the reality is so startling that at first it makes him almost dizzy. Can the showy creature beside him, preening herself under her gay sunshade, be the same overwhelmed, shrunk, tear-drenched Cecilia whom at their last meeting he had folded in so solemn an embrace? Her cheerful voice answers for herself: "It is so nice to see you again! When did you come? We did not expect you quite so soon; in your last letter you were rather vague as to dates; I can't say that you shine as a correspondent. You will come back to luncheon with us, of course, will not you? _déjeûner_, as they call it here; I always thought _déjeûner_ meant breakfast. You will come, will not you? Sybilla will be so glad to see you--glad, that is to say, in her dismal way." She ends with a laugh, which he listens to in a silence that is almost stunned. The sound of her voice, though set to so different a tune from what he had anticipated, has brought back the past with such astonishing vividness to him; her very fleer at Sybilla seems so much a part of the old life that he half turns his head, expecting once more to see Amelia's deprecating face, to hear her peace-making voice put in a plea, as it has done so many hundred times, for the peevish _malade imaginaire_. They have been strolling towards the carriages waiting outside, and have now reached one, driven by an _indigène_, a Moor, dusky as Othello, solemn as Rhadamanthus, and with his serious charms set off by a striped yellow and white jacket and a red sash.