It was too early yet for many flowers, but the April winds had melted the snow from off the Millbank grounds, and here and there patches of green grass were beginning to show, and the golden daffodil was just opening its leaves upon the borders of the garden walk. Millbank was nothing to what it would be a few weeks later, but it was handsome even now, and both Roger and Magdalen commented upon its beauty, while the former spoke of some improvements he had in contemplation, and should commence as soon as the ground was settled. A fountain here, and a terrace there for autumn flowers, and another winding walk leading to the grove toward the mill he meant to have, he said, and a pretty little summer-house down by the brook, like one he had seen in England. And as he talked of the summer-house by the brook, with its rustic seats and stands, the sun passed into a bank of clouds, the wind began to freshen and blow up from the river in raw, chilling gusts, which made Magdalen shiver, and brought to her mind last night’s adventure in the garret where the loose plank was. And with thoughts of that plank there crept over her a deeper chill,—a feeling of depression, as if the brightness of Millbank was passing away forever, and that the change was somehow being wrought by herself. CHAPTER XIX. THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLE. Hester was better. Her long sleep had done her good, and when she awoke it was evident that her fever was broken and the crisis of her disease passed. She was perfectly rational, and evidently retained no recollection of what she had said of the garret and Mrs. Walter Scott. Indeed, she was very civil to that lady, who, on her way to breakfast, came in to see her, looking very bright and fresh in her black wrapper, trimmed with scarlet, and her pretty little breakfast cap set on the back of her head. Good fare, which she did not have to pay for,—pure country air, and freedom from all care, had had a rejuvenating effect on Mrs. Walter Scott, and for a woman of forty-seven or thereabouts, she was remarkably handsome and well preserved. This morning she complained of feeling a little languid. She could not have slept as well as usual, she said, and she dreamed that some one came into her room, or tried to come in, and when she woke she was sure she heard footsteps at the extremity of the hall. “It was Roger, most likely,” Hester rejoined. “Like the good boy he is, he got up about twelve, or thereabouts, and stayed up the rest of the night with me and Magdalen.” “Oh-h,” Mrs. Irving replied, and her eyes had in them a puzzled look as she left Hester’s room and repaired to the breakfast table. “Hester tells me that you spent the night with her, or with Magdalen,—which was it?” she said to Roger playfully, as she leisurely sipped her cup of coffee.