The weather, which had been boasting that spring was come a fortnight before, had reversed its sentence—now that March was not only coursing in the blood and in the sap of the trees, but recorded in the calendar—and insisted that the season was no other than midwinter. A raw, surly east wind was blowing; a grey sky was overhead; the turf of the park looked pinched; the leaflets of the trees stood arrested—their green turned to sickly yellow. The little birds retained their songs in their breasts, and only chirped disconsolately in a croaking fashion down in their throats, as they hopped from bough to bough to keep themselves warm. Captain Fane, with his cocked hat pulled down to his eyebrows, looked grave and almost grim and hard-favoured as he paced the Mall. Captain Fane’s patience was not tried on the occasion. He had not half crossed the park when a little figure, guarded from the chill morning air and from prying eyes by a furred mantle and a capuchin, came towards him. The figure was followed by a faithful maid in her white cap and pattens, walking discreetly behind. The lady advanced, woman fashion, as if she did not see the gentleman, but had been enticed out by the fineness of the disagreeable morning, and by the company on the deserted Mall. She looked over her shoulder to speak to her maid. She tacked, as she picked her steps from side to side of the Mall, like one of the ships in Harry Fane’s squadron when the wind was chopping afresh every minute. The figure, with its halting, wavering, but unmistakable progress in his direction, quickened the gentleman’s steps in accordance with his bounding pulses, and sent him straight as a launch to meet it. Captain Fane was deeply sensible of the boon granted to him; but even as he held Lady Bell’s hand in his own, his face continued grave and contracted with trouble and pain. The first words which he said as he turned and walked by her side, giving, not offering his arm, were words of warning in breaking bad news. “It is well that you have been as good as your word, dearest, well for your own tender heart as for my comfort in remembrance, since our first meeting is likely to be our last. Orders from the Admiralty were waiting my return last night. I did not know, but it was just possible that the _Thunderbomb_ might be put in dock to lie high and dry for months. I had even entertained the thought—but that was before I saw you and lost my head with my heart—ah! sweet Bell, I’ll go bail you have much to account for—of seeking to get an appointment to another ship, lest I should be kept hanging about long on shore. Long! The time has passed like a summer day which is all but ended. The _Thunderbomb_ is to hold itself in readiness to weigh anchor on or about the 15th, to sail with a detachment of troops for Boston.”