And now to get home! The short grass was damp, noisy rivulets trickled boastfully after the rain, but the mountains and low country looked like a brilliant, freshly painted scene: the hills were gay with gorse, cranberries, and bright purple heather, and dotted with sheep and little black cattle. The party now descended two and two--Lord Tony and Madeline the last. He was really in love with this pretty tall girl who walked beside him, with a deer-stalker cap on her dark hair, a golf-cape over her graceful shoulders, and a lovely colour, the result of rain and wind, in her charming face. The rain and wind had but enhanced _her_ beauty. Yes; they would get on capitally; she would be not only a wife to be proud of, but a _bonne camarade_, ever gay, quick-witted, and good-tempered; a capital hostess and country gentleman’s helpmate. How well she got over the ground, how nimbly she scaled the stiles, and climbed the loose walls without bringing down half a ton of stones. Here was another opportunity: speak he _would_. Gradually and clumsily he brought the subject round to the topic nearest his heart. His speech was half uttered, when she interrupted him, saying-- “Lord Anthony, I like you very much as a friend----” “You need not offer me platonic friendship, because I won’t have it, and I don’t believe in it. No,” he began impetuously. “And if you like me, I am quite content.” “Stop! Please let me finish. I like you so much, that I am going to tell you a great secret.” “You are engaged to be married?” he exclaimed. “No; I am married already.” Lord Tony halted. She also came to a full stop, and they looked at one another in expressive silence. She was wonderfully cool, whilst he was crimson with astonishment; his eyes dilated, his mouth quivered, his lower lip dropped. “You are joking!” he gasped out at last. “No; indeed I am not.” “And where is your husband?” “He is in London. My father does not know that such a person exists.” “Great Cæsar’s ghost!” “No; I have never dared to tell him yet. I married from school,” she continued, and in a few hurried sentences gave the outline of her story, omitting her husband’s name and profession, and all reference to her small son. “You see how I am situated. I have not ventured to tell the truth yet, and I confide my secret to your honour and your keeping.” “Of course it is perfectly safe,” he began, rather stiffly, “and I feel myself very much honoured by your confidence, and all that.” “Oh, Lord Tony, please don’t talk to me in that tone,” she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes. “I told you--because--you are what men call ‘a good sort;’ because I feel that I can rely upon you; because, though you like me, you don’t really care for me, you know you don’t; nor have I ever encouraged you or any man. My father is devoted to you; he is determined to--to--well--you know his wishes--and I want you to allow him to think that you have cooled, and have changed your mind. You--you understand?”