At parting he kissed her tenderly, almost solemnly. Then she quickly undid from her neck a little brooch, and put it in his hand with these words: "Give that to her, with my love, _and with yours_." CHAPTER XXV. EVIL TIDINGS. Very early did Dove get up that cool September morning. Away down the valley there lay a faintly yellow haze, which made one feel that the sun was behind it, and would soon drink it up. In the meantime the grass was wet. A birch-tree that almost touched her bedroom window had its drooping branches of shivering leaves glistening with moisture. The willows along the riverside were almost hid. The withered and red chestnut-leaves which floated on the pond had a cold autumn look about them. Then old Thwaites, the keeper, appeared, with a pointer and a curly black retriever; and when the old man went into the meadow, to knock down some walnuts from the trees, his breath was visible in the damp thick atmosphere. She saw these things vaguely; she only knew with certainty that the sunlight and Will were coming. A hundred times she made up her mind as to the mood in which she ought to receive him. Indeed, for weeks back she had done nothing but mentally rehearse that meeting; and every scene that she described to herself was immediately afterwards abandoned. She was hurt, she knew; and in her secret heart she longed to—— No! he had been very neglectful about letters, and she would—— But in the meantime it was important, whatever _rôle_ she might assume, that she should look as pretty as possible. This was all her immediate care—a care that had awoke her an hour too soon. But if she had changed her mind about the manner in which she should receive him, how much more about the costume which was to add effect to the scene? Every detail—every little ornament, and bit of ribbon, and dexterous fold—she studied, and altered, and studied and altered again, until she was very nearly losing temper, and wishing that people had been born to look their best without the necessity of clothing themselves. Perhaps one might be allowed to make a remark about those ladies who, dressing for a ball or the theatre, imagine that the less they clothe themselves the better they look. It is merely a question of the relative artistic value of certain surfaces. And, as a general rule, it may be accepted that the natural complexion of women’s shoulders is inferior in fineness of hue and texture to the same extent of white satin or dove-coloured silk. Downstairs she went. Mr. Anerley was engaged in turning in the edge of his cartridges, and had succeeded in vigorously scratching the marble mantelpiece with the machine he was using. "Good morning, papa." She was very much embarrassed, she did not know why. She hoped he would not look at her; but he did, and kissed her, and returned to his work.