That afternoon we had, by favour of its owner, Mr. George Beeforth, one of the pioneers of Scarborough, wandered through the beautiful private gardens of the Belvedere, which, with their rose-walks, lawns and plantations, stretched from the promenade down to the sea, and had spent some charming hours in what its genial owner called "the sun-trap." In all the north of England there are surely no more beautiful gardens beside the sea than those, and happily their good-natured owner is never averse to granting a stranger permission to visit them. As we now sat upon that stile our hearts were too full for words, devoted as we were to each other. "Owen," my wife exclaimed at last, her soft little hand upon my shoulder as she looked up into my face, "are you certain you will never regret marrying me?" "Why, of course not, dearest," I said quickly, looking into her great wide-open eyes. "But--but, somehow----" "Somehow, what?" I asked slowly. "Well," she sighed, gazing away towards the far-off horizon, her wonderful eyes bluer than the sea itself, "I have a strange, indescribable feeling of impending evil--a presage of disaster." "My darling," I exclaimed, "why trouble yourself over what are merely melancholy fancies? We are happy in each other's love; therefore why should we anticipate evil? If it comes, then we will unite to resist it." "Ah, yes, Owen," she replied quickly, "but this strange feeling came over me yesterday when we were together at Whitby. I cannot describe it--only it is a weird, uncanny feeling, a fixed idea that something must happen to mar this perfect happiness of ours." "What can mar our happiness when we both trust each other--when we both love each other, and our two hearts beat as one?" "Has not the French poet written a very serious truth in those lines: '_Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment; chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie_'?" "Yes, but we shall experience no chagrin, sweetheart," I assured her. "After another week here we will travel where you will. If you wish, we will go to Carrington. There we shall be perfectly happy together, away in beautiful Devonshire." "I know you want to go there for the shooting, Owen," she said quietly, yet regarding me somewhat strangely, I thought. "You have asked Mr. Marlowe?" "With your permission, dearest." But her face changed, and she sighed slightly. In an instant I recollected the admission that they had either met before, or at least they knew something concerning each other. "Perhaps you do not desire to entertain company yet?" I said quickly. "Very well; I'll ask your father; he and I can have some sport together." "Owen," she said at last, turning her fair face again to mine, "would you think it very, very strange of me, after all that you have done at beautiful old Carrington, if I told you that I--well, that I do not exactly like the place?"