He would perhaps have altered his opinion in some measure could he have seen Jane half an hour later. She had locked herself in her bedroom, and was crying bitterly. Why she was crying thus she would have found it difficult to explain: in fact, she hardly knew herself. It is possible that her tears were not altogether tears of bitterness—that some other feeling than sorrow for her temporary separation from Edward Cope was stirring the fountains of her heart. She kept on upbraiding herself for her coldness and want of feeling, and trying to persuade herself that she was deeply sorry, rather than secretly—very secretly—glad to be relieved of the tedium of his presence for several weeks to come. She knew how wrong it was of her—it was almost wicked, she thought—to feel thus: but, underlying all her tears, was a gleam of precious sunshine, of which she was dimly conscious, although she would not acknowledge its presence even to herself. After a time her tears ceased to flow. She got up and bathed her eyes. While thus occupied her maid knocked at the door. Mr. Bristow was downstairs. He had brought some photographs for Miss Culpepper to look at. “Tell Mr. Bristow how sorry I am that I cannot see him to-day,” said Jane. “But my head aches so badly that I cannot possibly go down.” Then when the girl was gone, “I won’t see him to-day,” she added to herself. “When Edward and I are married he will come and see us sometimes, perhaps. Edward will always be glad to see him.” Hearing the front-door clash, she ran to the window and pulled aside a corner of the blind. In a minute or two she saw Tom walking leisurely down the avenue. Presently he paused, and turned, and began to scan the house as if he knew that Jane were watching him. It was quite impossible that he should see her, but for all that she shrank back, with a blush and a shy little smile. But she did not loose her hold of the blind; and presently she peeped again, and never moved her eyes till Tom was lost to view. Then she went downstairs into the drawing-room, and found there the photographs which Tom had left for her inspection. There, too, lying close by, was a glove which he had dropped and had omitted to pick up again. “I will give it to him next time he comes,” she said softly to herself. Strange to relate, her next action was to press the glove to her lips, after which she hid it away in the bosom of her dress. But young ladies’ memories are proverbially treacherous, and Jane’s was no exception to the rule. Tom Bristow’s glove never found its way back into his possession.