"This is a summer's day, with a vengeance," says Dorian, genially, proceeding to make himself comfortable on the top of the low wall near which she is standing. He is plainly making up his mind to a long and exhaustive conversation. "Talk of India!" he says disparagingly; "this beats it to fits!" Ruth acquiesces amiably. "It is warm,--very," she says, calmly, but indifferently. "'Ot I call it,--werry 'ot," returns he, making his quotation as genially as though she understands it, and, plucking a little rose-bud from a tree near him, proceeds to adorn his coat with it. "It seems a long time since I have seen you," he goes on, presently; and, as he speaks, his eyes again seek hers. Something in her face touches some chord in his careless kindly nature. "How pale you are!" he says, abruptly. "Am I? The heat, no doubt,"--with a faint smile. "But thin, too, are you not? And--and--" he pauses. "Anything wrong with you, Ruth?" "Wrong? No! How should there be?" retorts she, in a curious tone, in which fear and annoyance fight for mastery. Then the storm dies away, and the startled look fades from her pretty face. "Why should you think me unhappy because I am a little pale?" she asks, sullenly. Branscombe looks surprised. "You altogether mistake me," he says, gently. "I never associated you in my mind with unhappiness. I merely meant, had you a headache, or any other of those small ills that female flesh is heir to? I beg your pardon, I'm sure, if I have offended you." He has jumped off the wall, and is now standing before her, with only the little gate between them. Her face is still colorless, and she is gazing up at him with parted lips, as though she would fain say something difficult to form into satisfactory speech. At this moment, Lord Sartoris, coming suddenly round the angle of the road, sees them. Ruth lowers her eyes, and some slight transient color creeps into her cheeks. Sartoris, coming quickly up to them, makes some conventional speech to her, and then turns to his nephew. "Where are you going?" he asks, coldly. "I was going to Hythe," returned the young man, easily. "Just as well I didn't, eh? Should have found you out." "Found me out,--yes," repeats his uncle, looking at him strangely. How long--how long it takes to find out some people, on whom our very hearts are set. "I am going to the village." "Then so am I," says Branscombe. "Though I should think it would run the original 'deserted' one close on such a day as this. Good-by, Ruth." He holds out his hand; and the girl, silently returning his warm pressure, makes a faint courtesy to Lord Sartoris. There is no servility, but some nervousness, in the slight salutation. "How is your father, Ruth?" asks he, detaining her by a quick movement of the hand. "Quite well, thank you, my lord." Some timidity is discernible in her tone, caused by the unmistakable reproof and sternness in his.