It seemed, however, to have raised Sylvester's spirits, which had been down to zero of late. He was going abroad with a friend, but he had lingered and put off his start in the hope of once more seeing Amethyst, a sight which he had nevertheless dreaded unspeakably. They had met now, with no time for resentment or embarrassment, and his one feeling was that she was now free. He saw her once again; for she came to the Rectory on the next afternoon, just as he was setting out on his journey. The weather had changed, and the sky was grey. Amethyst wore a grey frock and hat. She was pale, and looked much less pretty than usual, and her manner was cold, and, he fancied, showed displeasure. Sylvester's train was due, he could only shake hands and inquire for her sister. "She was very much upset and frightened; but she has not been well lately. We must take much more care of her, then I hope she will be better." With the last word, she lifted her eyes for a moment to the Rector's face as he stood behind his son; but they did not meet Sylvester's, and in a moment she had passed into the drawing-room out of his sight. He thought of her, as he had seen her first with the glowing amethysts on her brow and neck, an angelic vision; at the primrose-picking, a fresh and joyous girl; when he had come home at Midsummer, happy and proud in her betrothal; at the fatal garden-party, with eyes that had fallen before his own, with a cloud of doubt on her face. He had admired her, idealised her, and, he knew it now, all the while he had loved her, and yet his fate had given him a share in breaking her heart. Now he had seen her again, pale and sad, in the light of common day. Sylvester took his ticket for London, labelled his luggage, got into the train, and exchanged a newspaper with a friend. But, in his heart, he vowed himself to Amethyst's service, he took her for the lady of his love, as if with her colours in his helmet, he had ridden forth to cry her name in the battle-field, and die with it on his lips. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. "IRIS." One sunny afternoon in spring, Lucian Leigh was sitting on a bench in the garden at Ashfield Mount. Nearly two years had passed since he had left Cleverley in the agony of his great disappointment, and he had now come back to it for the first time. The flowers were as gay as when he had walked among them during the brief days of his betrothal, the house looked as cheerful and comfortable as of old; the great deer-hound that sat at his feet was unchanged during his absence, but Lucian himself had grown from youth to manhood, and though the expression of his impassive, regular-featured face had changed but little, it was so effectually bronzed, that hair, and even eyes, showed light against the sunburn. He sat still and smoked, and patted Donald's head--he liked the feel of it--till footsteps approached, and he was hailed from the neighbouring shrubbery.