It was midsummer, a perfect midsummer evening, the placid sky still faintly tinted with rose and amethyst yonder where the sun had just gone down behind the undulating line of willows. The little town of Stratford lay in its valley, folded in a purple cloud, only the slender church spire rising clear and sharp against that tranquil evening sky. Daphne had stolen away from Madoline and Gerald, who were sitting on the terrace, while Edgar, chained to his post in the dining-room by a lengthy monologue upon certain political difficulties, with which Sir Vernon was pleased to favour him, vainly longed for liberty to rejoin his idol. She had put on her hat, and had set out upon a lonely pilgrimage to Stratford. They were all to leave South Hill early to-morrow, and it was Daphne’s fancy to bid good-bye to the church which sheltered those ashes it were the worst of sacrilege to disturb. It was an idle fancy, no doubt, engendered of a mind prone to idle thoughts; but Daphne, having no urgent occupation for her time this evening, fancied she had a right to indulge it. ‘I am going for a little walk,’ she had told Edgar, as she left the dining-room; ‘don’t fidget yourself about me.’ From which moment poor Edgar had been in agonies of restlessness, turning an ear deafer than any adder’s to Sir Vernon’s disquisition upon the critical state of the country, and the utter incapacity of the men in office to deal with such a crisis, and inwardly chafing against every extension of the subject which prolonged the seemingly endless discourse. ‘A little walk!’ and why, and where, and with whom? Vainly did Edgar’s strained gaze explore the distant landscape. From his position at the dinner-table, he could see a fine range of country ten or fifteen miles away; but never a glimpse of terrace or garden by which Daphne must go. And it was the rule of his life to show Sir Vernon the extremity of respect, an almost old-fashioned and Grandisonian reverence. Therefore to cut short that prosy discourse was impossible. The blessed moment of release came at last. Sir Vernon finished his claret with a sigh, and left nation and ministry to their fate. Edgar hurried to the terrace. Gerald and Madoline were sipping their coffee at a little rustic bamboo table, the Maltese Fluff lying luxuriously in his mistress’s silken lap. ‘Have you any idea where Daphne has gone?’ Edgar asked despairingly. ‘No, indeed. I saw her stroll down towards the river. Perhaps she has gone to see her aunt.’ ‘Thanks, yes, I daresay,’ replied Edgar, speeding off towards the Rectory without waiting to consider whether the clue were worth following. While Mr. Turchill was hastening across the fields at a racing pace, Daphne was seated in her boat, quietly drifting towards Stratford, along a dreamy twilit river, where every willow had a ghostly look in the evening dimness.