Ralph was just the sort of man who could not for the life of him order his own dinner. He always, when put to it, as in the present instance, fell back, upon “a chop.” This the landlord undertook to have speedily prepared. It was ready a good while before Ralph returned to eat it! As his host suggested, he sauntered out into the garden. A real garden of the good old-fashioned sort. Seen, too, to the greatest perfection on this hot, sweet, sunny day. What air there was, came laden with breath of roses and clover-pinks, mignonette, and wall-flower; all of which, with their less fragrant, but not less lovely companions—heart’s-ease, sweet-William, and all the dear old friends we see so seldom now-a-days, flourished in rare beauty and abundance in the neat little borders with their trim box edges, round all sides of the smooth, close-cut lawn, or grass plot, as its landlord had been content to call it. More than once Ralph stopped in his stroll to bury his face in some peculiarly tempting rose, or to pass his hand caressingly over the rich, soft velvet of an appealing pansy at his feet. “What a sweet place,” he thought to himself “and what a perfect day! Just the place to make love in.” So, too, thought his only companion in the garden, a young girl, half lying, half sitting in the arbour, whom as yet he had not observed served. Nor had he, so far, been perceived by her. Marion, for she it was, had been spending the morning in a very idle fashion. With a book in her hand, but not reading, in a half dream of sweet summer fancies, subdued to pensiveness if not to melancholy, as was all about her, by the shadows of the past; but tinged and brightened, nevertheless, by the gentle sunshine of peace and affection which was gradually stealing into her life. She was growing happier, there was no doubt. As she sat in the arbour that morning in dreamy restfulness, she acknowledged this to herself. It might be to some extent the sweet summer influences about her—the flowers and the sunshine, and that loveliest of summer sounds, the soft, musical, mysterious hum—above, around, close-at-hand, and yet far off—of the myriads of busy, happy insects, rejoicing in their life; it might, to some extent, come from these outer-world influences, for her nature was intensely, exquisitely sensitive and impressionable. But however this may have been, the result was the same. The thoughts in her heart were full of gratitude and gentle gladness, as she murmured to herself softly, “I thank God that I am growing happier. The past has not crushed me so utterly as I thought. My youth has not altogether left me. I have suffered, God knows how I have suffered, but I thank Him that the memory of it is beginning to fade in the light of the peaceful present.”