brought a measure of comfort with it, and Bride walked through the sunny gardens in a deep reverie, looking around her at the awakening of nature with a strange but intensely real hope that it was but the type and foretaste of another and more wondrous resurrection, in which she might be counted worthy to have a share, perhaps even before this same young year had run its appointed course. Her meditations were interrupted by the sudden appearance at her side of her cousin Eustace. How he came she knew not. She had not observed his approach, but here he was walking beside her; and as she raised her eyes for a moment to his face, she was aware that it wore an expression of strange concentration, whilst at the same time in his voice there was a tone which she did not remember ever to have heard there before. “Bride,” he said, speaking more abruptly than usual, “you know that I am going away soon?” “I had heard something of it. I did not know the day was fixed. I think you must feel glad. There is so little to do at Penarvon--for one like you.” “I fear your father thinks I have done too much, as it is,” answered Eustace hastily. “Bride, have I made him hate me? Has he spoken with disapproval of me to you?” “Oh, no!” answered Bride. “My father seldom speaks disparagingly of any one who is not there to defend himself. He would say nothing to me that he did not say to you; and if he did. I could not repeat it, of course.” “No,” answered Eustace quickly; “I was wrong in asking; but I was nervously afraid, I think, lest he should have said something to do hurt to my cause. Bride, are you sorry I am going away? Will you miss me when I am gone?” He spoke with covert eagerness, almost with excitement, and Bride was puzzled at the note of emotion in his voice, and paused to consider her answer. She was always transparently truthful and sincere, and although brought up to show courtesy to all with whom she came in contact, she had never taught herself to utter the platitudes and shallow untruths of society, and chose her words with care when appealed to in such a fashion. “I think I shall miss you,” she answered, looking reflectively before her. “It will seem strange not to see your face at table, or to have some one to talk to in the evenings. I think father will miss you too. He likes to converse with one who knows the world and can understand him. Perhaps you will come again some day, Eustace?” “Do you ask it, Bride?” he questioned, his voice quivering. “I have no power to invite guests to Penarvon,” she answered gently. “My father has never given me leave to do so; but I think he will be glad to think you will come again: he has so few belonging in any way to him now.” “Would you be glad, Bride?” he asked, in the same tense and almost impassioned way; “that is what I wish to know. Would you be glad to think that I should come again soon?”