L’amour nous enlève notre libre-arbitre: on peut choisir ses amitiés, mais on subit l’amour. PRINCESSE KARADJA. ONE lovely sparkling April day a man was slowly pushing his bicycle up a certain steep incline which is situated a little way out of Dorchester, and which is known as Yellowham Hill. The road climbed upwards between woods, the banks on either side being surmounted by a dense growth of rhododendrons and gorse, the latter in full bloom, its brilliant yellow contrasting with the glossy dark leaves of the bushes behind, which were already covered with a myriad of buds, and the little bronze crooks of the bracken curling upwards through the moss beneath. The long spring day wanted yet some hours of its close, but already delicious spicy odours came forth from the woods, which spoke of falling dew; and the birds were making mysterious rustlings in the boughs, as though preparing to go to roost. The young man paused every now and then to draw a long breath, and to look round him with evident delight. ‘This is good,’ he said to himself once. ‘This is fairyland—the place is full of magic.’ Then a sudden change came over his face, and he added: ‘It is better than fairyland—it is home.’ He was a pleasant-looking young fellow, with a handsome intelligent face and a tall well-knit figure. He had grey eyes, very alert and keen in their expression, and when he smiled his face lit up in an unexpected and attractive way. His complexion was browner than might have been looked for in connection with his hair, which was not very dark, and he had a certain wideawake air as of one who had seen many men and things. He had almost reached the crest of the hill when his glance, sweeping appreciatively over the curving bank at the turn of the road, rested upon a woman’s figure amid the tangle of sunlit green and gold which crowned it. Rosalie Fiander—who would be Rosalie Fiander for some three months longer, it having been agreed between her and Isaac that their marriage should not take place till her year’s widowhood was completed—had halted here on her return to Branston, after a flying business-visit to Dorchester. These Yellowham Woods had been much loved by her during her childhood, and she had yielded to the temptation of alighting from the gig to spend a few minutes in what had once been to her a very paradise. Nigger was placidly cropping the grass at a little distance from her, and she had been on her way to re-enter the vehicle, when she had paused for a last glance round.