Meanwhile Ellen was pursuing her course along the beach road towards Monk’s Lodge, where she arrived within half an hour. Monk’s Lodge, a quaint red-brick house of the Tudor period, was surrounded on three sides by plantations of Scotch firs. To the east, however, stretching to the top of the sea cliff, was a strip of turf, not more than a hundred yards wide, so that all the front windows of the house commanded an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Behind the building lay the gardens, which were old-fashioned and beautiful, and sheltered by the encircling belts of firs; but in front were neither trees nor flowers, for the fierce easterly gales, and the salt spray which drifted thither in times of storm, would not allow of their growth. Descending from the dog-cart, Ellen was shown through the house into the garden, where she found Emma seated reading, or pretending to read, under the shade of a cedar; for the day was hot and still. “How good of you to come, Ellen!” she said, springing up,—“and so early too.” “I can’t take credit for any particular virtue in that respect, my dear,” Ellen answered, kissing her affectionately; “it is pleasant to escape to this delightful place and be quiet for a few hours, and I have been looking forward to it for a week. What between sickness and other things, my life at home is one long worry just now.” “It ought not to be, when you are engaged to be married,” said Emma interrogatively. “Even engagements have their drawbacks, as no doubt you will discover one day,” she answered, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Edward is the best and dearest of men, but he can be a wee bit trying at times: he is too affectionate and careful of me, if that is possible, for you know I am an independent person and do not like to have some one always running after me like a nurse with a child.” “Perhaps he will give up that when you are married,” said Emma doubtfully. Somehow she could not picture her handsome and formidable friend—for at times the gentle Emma admitted to herself that she was rather formidable— as the constant object and recipient of _petits soins_ and sweet murmured nothings. “Possibly he will,” answered Ellen decisively. “By the way, I just called in to see Henry, whom I found in a state of great delight with the note and roses which you sent him. He asked me to give you his kindest regards, and to say that he was much touched by your thought of him.” “They were lilies, not roses,” answered Emma, looking down. “I meant lilies,—did I say roses?” said Ellen innocently. “And, talking of lilies, you look a little pale, dear.” “I am always pale, Ellen; and, like you, I have been a good deal worried lately.” “Worried! Who can worry you in this Garden of Eden?” “Nobody. It is—my own thoughts. I dare say that even Eve felt worried in her garden after she had eaten that apple, you know.”