Under the shadow of a noble maple, Lady Glencairn was seated in earnest conversation with her uncle. Her ladyship was looking exceedingly beautiful in a pink-flowered summer silk, which puffed and billowed around her, with a bunch of white heather at her breast and a wreath of the same dainty flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She held a pink-lined parasol over her head, and from under the protecting shadow her dark lustrous eyes flashed disdainfully as she regarded her scolding companion. Suddenly she gave a start and leaned forward to watch the group opposite. She had noticed the quiet entrance of the servant and the immediate departure of the poet, and idly wondered who it was that desired to see Robert on such urgent business that they must needs follow him here. The minutes passed and still he did not return. She was growing anxious. “Suppose”—and she started violently at the sudden thought—“suppose it was by some unfortunate chance Jean Armour herself?” She rose quickly to her feet, with a word of apology and after a quick look around, in which she noticed Mary’s pale face and restless manner, she walked leisurely toward the house. Once inside she rang for the page and upon questioning him learned that the young woman who had insisted on seeing Mr. Burns, and who was none other than Jean Armour, as she concluded from the man’s description, had just gone, and that Mr. Burns was now seated in the drawing-room alone. Hastily dismissing him, she stole softly into the parlors, and there beside the table, his face in his hands, sat Robert, his shoulders heaving convulsively. She looked at him a moment and the tears of pity came into her luminous eyes. Then softly she walked to his side and laid her cool hand upon his feverish head. “Robert, I am so sorry for you,” she said gently. He lifted his head with a start and rose quickly to his feet. It didn’t occur to him to ask what she meant or to inquire how she knew what had happened in that room, and she was secretly glad that he demanded no explanation. “Where is she?” he asked dully. “She has gone,” she answered quickly. “I—I met her at the door and offered to assist her, gave her money and advised her not to make any unnecessary scandal in town, but to return to her home at once. You know she is my godchild. So she promised to go, and I presume she is now on her way.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she glibly told this falsehood. She didn’t know what arrangements he had made with Jean, but she daringly made the lying explanation, confident that he would believe it, for he could have no possible reason for suspecting her motives, or any means of finding out at present that she had not indeed met Jean, who might have altered her plans at the last moment.