Following her directions, and passing through the little wicket, Richard presently found himself in the walled enclosure which had once been the Manor House garden, for Littlecomb had been the dower house of a noble family; along the straight prim paths stately ladies had loved to pace, and the lavender hedge which was Rosalie’s pride had been the pride of many a titled dame before her. It was more of a pleasant wilderness than a garden now, having been neglected by Elias and his predecessors on the farm; but Rosalie was endeavouring to reclaim it, and already had made progress with the work. Richard, walking slowly onward, glanced anxiously down the dim alleys, and peered into various overgrown bowers. At length, amid a mass of distant greenery, he descried a moving figure, and, quickening his pace, advanced towards it. The afterglow had now almost faded, and the moon had not yet risen; here beneath these high walls and amid this dense growth everything looked shadowy and unreal. He would scarcely have distinguished which was path and which was flower-border had he not been guided towards the spot where she stood by a double line of white pinks. Now a blossom-laden apple-bough barred his progress; now he passed beneath an arch of monthly roses, brushing off the moisture from leaf and bloom as he went. All at once Rosalie’s voice called through the dusk: ‘Is that you, Susan? Come here for a moment; I want you to hold this branch.’ Richard made no reply, but hastened on. The shadowy figure turned, and he saw the pale silhouette of her face. She was standing beneath a great bush laden with white blossoms, which from their size and perfume he judged to be lilac; she had drawn down a branch and was endeavouring to detach one of the clustering blooms. ‘Who is it?’ she said quickly. ‘It is I,’ he returned. She loosed the branch, which flew rustling up to join its fellows, and made a step forward; he could see her face more clearly now; the gleam of her white teeth between her parted lips; he even fancied that he could detect an angry sparkle in her eyes. ‘Why do you come here?’ she said. ‘Here at least I supposed myself safe.’ ‘I came,’ replied Richard, in an unsteady voice, ‘to beg your pardon most humbly, most sincerely, for my conduct to you to-day.’ ‘It was inexcusable,’ she said, after a pause. It seemed to him that she was breathing quickly—perhaps with a just and natural anger. ‘I do not attempt to excuse it,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot even understand it,’ she pursued. ‘What had I done to you? How do my private concerns affect you?’ There was a long silence, and then Richard said, almost in a whisper: ‘I can make no excuse—I think I must have been mad! When I came to myself I felt—as if I could kill myself for my brutality to you. All day the shame of it has been eating into my soul—I feel branded, disgraced! I cannot rest until you tell me you have forgiven me.’