The next morning we met, but not in the presence of the old man, her husband. Down in the leafy woods, about a quarter of a mile from Mrs. Beaumont’s cottage, was a running brook and a mossy bank, overshadowed by the sycamore and elm. This, in the days gone by, had been our favourite resort. Here had we built our playhouse, washed our bits of broken china in the rippling stream—here had we watched the little fishes as they darted in and out of the deeper eddies—here had we conned our daily tasks—here had she listened to a tale of love, the memory of which seemed but a mocking dream, and here, as I faintly hoped, I found her. With a half-joyful, half-moaning cry, she threw her arms around my neck, and I could feel her tears dropping upon my face as she whispered, ‘Oh, Lottie, Lottie, we have met again by the dear old brook.’ For a few moments she sobbed as if her heart would break, then suddenly drying her tears, she assumed a calm, cold, dignified manner, such as I had never seen in Cora Blanchard. Very composedly she questioned me of what I had done during her absence, telling me, too, of her travels, of the people she had seen and the places she had visited, but never a word said she of him she called her husband. From the bank where we sat, the village graveyard was discernible, with its marble gleaming through the trees, and at last, as her eye wandered in that direction, she said, ‘Have any of our villagers died! Mother’s letters were never very definite.’ ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘Our minister, Mr. Sumner, died two months ago.’ ‘Who takes his place?’ she asked; and as if a suspicion of the truth were flashing upon her, her eyes turned toward me with an eager, startled glance. ‘Walter Beaumont. He is to be ordained next Sabbath, and you are just in time,’ I replied, regretting my words the next instant for never saw I so fearful a look of anguish as that which swept over her face, and was succeeded by a cold, hard, defiant expression, scarcely less painful to witness.