Things had continued in this wise for many long days, when the young man, coming to call at Hazelhurst, chanced upon Hazel in the flower-garden. She made as if to flee, but the next moment, recollecting herself, she stood her ground, and awaited his approach. "It is my birthday to-day," Paul announced, as they shook hands, feigning not to heed her timorous demeanour. "Is it really?" she exclaimed, much interested. Hazel was young—a birthday was still a great event to her. "I wish you many happy returns of the day. Mother is in the house; shall we go to her?" "Certainly," Paul answered, and hesitated. "You will not give me a tangible token of your well-wishing?" he asked wistfully. Hazel looked her amazement. "How can I?" she questioned. "I did not know in time." How very odd and—and bold of Paul to ask for a birthday present! One did not ask one’s nearest relatives! "It would not take you long to gather me a flower," he answered, unashamed, although he read something of her thoughts. "I should prize that immensely." Hazel turned at the suggestion, in a little flutter of eagerness, to select a rosebud, or whatever chanced to look most fitting, wherewith to honour the occasion; and after some diligent search was about to pluck, when of a sudden something stayed her hand. In an instant the sweet, unconscious child was gone, and a dignified maiden stood in her stead. "You may take anything you fancy," she said. "Miles won’t mind." The young man stood appalled. "You—you won’t give me one?" he expostulated. "You can’t want it very much if you find it too much trouble to take one for yourself," she answered evasively. "Hazel," he said, much aggrieved, "you have given me flowers before. Don’t you remember the little bunch of Shepherd’s Eye?" Yes, Hazel remembered—she was minded how glad she had been that he thought them so pretty, and had asked for them so eagerly. He was just as eager now—he was fond of flowers. How was it that somehow she could not bring herself to give him one? It was so little to ask of her! What had happened—what had come between her and this dear friend? What was it? It had been much happier then. Surely he was the same? Yet something was not the same, somehow things were different. She looked up: there was troubled questioning in the wistful brown eyes. Was she relenting? "You will give me a flower?" he asked eagerly, drawing a step nearer. His ardour frightened her. Had he spoken lightly and affected carelessness—had he managed to hide, or disguise, much of the fervour that marked his simple request, she would perhaps, though troubled and perplexed at her own reluctance, have complied with it. She drew back as he advanced and put her hands behind her, looking half timid, half defiant. "No," she answered determinedly. Paul stood regarding her thoughtfully. "Why not?" he asked at length, bluntly. "I—I don’t know," Hazel murmured, truthfully enough. "Won’t you please come to the house?"