On such a morning, George Holroyd came whistling across the pleasure-ground in search of his mother. She was extremely fond of flowers, and if hoarding up shilling to shilling was Mrs. Redmond’s passion, and deepest earthly enjoyment, grubbing, transplanting, nursing, and potting was hers. George swung back the garden gate, till it shivered on its hinges, and beheld his mother, and a tall girl, promenading along the central gravel walk. His mother was leaning upon her companion’s arm, and carried an earthy trowel in one hand--they were evidently engaged in earnest conversation. On hearing the gate slam, they both turned towards him, and could it be possible that his mother’s _confidante_ was Betty Redmond? For a moment he doubted her identity, so great was the difference between smiles and tears--between a wild rose complexion and a countenance sodden and swollen with crying--between a dull misty afternoon, and a brilliant morning. The sun brought out the bronze tints of Betty’s brown hair, and was reflected in the depths of her deep grey eyes--eyes of that mystic shade, that can be soft with joy or love, brimming with sympathy, dancing with mirth, or dark as night with grief or jealousy. Such eyes are wont to dazzle, and into their depths it is most dangerous for a young man to gaze, unless he would be their slave for life. Luckily for mankind, the power of these eyes was unknown to their possessor; to her, they were merely a pair of useful organs, that saw well, slept well, and wept well--to the latter George Holroyd could bear testimony. Betty had discarded her waterproof, and wore a well-fitting blue serge gown, a black straw sailor’s hat, in which was jauntily stuck two bits of scarlet geranium, the very last of the season. She was tall and slight, and as George looked, he agreed with his mother--Betty Redmond was beautiful. Hers was a style that bore a searching light, the open air, the bold unflattering sun. Belle looked best in dim rose-shaded lamplight, or within the circuit of a fire, whose blaze was reproduced in her magnificent dark orbs. Belle was a brilliant hot-house azalea, and Betty a bit of white mountain heather. It is true that her nose was not as neatly chiselled as her cousin’s, and that her small white teeth were somewhat irregular; nevertheless Betty was a pretty girl and found great favour in George Holroyd’s eyes; but whether she was a “warm-hearted young creature” he had yet to discover. “This is my son, George,” explained Mrs. Malone proudly. “George, don’t you know Betty? I mean Miss Elizabeth Redmond.” “Yes,” replied George. “I have already had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. I helped her to excavate a treasure in the upper wood at Noone.” Betty coloured to her brow, for his eyes were looking straight into hers, with an expression that confused and vexed her--an expression of undisguised admiration.