'And now, I suppose,' said Jerry, as he manipulated a cigar, 'I must just do as she probably did when the "late lamented" took himself off.' 'What is that?' '"Drop some natural tears and wipe them soon," as Milton has it.' 'I'll give you another quotation, Jerry--what does Abou Adhem say?' 'Don't know--never heard of the fellow.' '"Your lost love is neither the beginning nor ending of life. Several things remain to you. She is false, and you are the victim. Very good. Nature is not going into bankruptcy; the sun will rise and set just the same; corn will grow, birds sing, and the rain fall just as before. My experience is, that it's a toss up that you are not the better without her, and she not better without _you_."' 'Likely enough, Tony; but, as "Cœlebs in search of a wife," I need not go there any more,' half grumbled Jerry, as he whipped up his high-stepper and bowled away through the long street of huts to his quarters; while to Dalton's graver mind there seemed to be something intensely comical in the equanimity with which he took his repulse. CHAPTER VIII. 'FOR EVER AND FOR EVER.' Of a very different nature in its depth and passion was a love-scene which was taking place not very far distant from the Grange at about the same time. Alison Cheyne, we have said, had ceased to take her walk beside the beeches, though her heart yearned for it, and she knew well who was too probably loitering and watching there; so Bevil Goring, at all risks, wrote her a passionate and imploring letter to meet him once again at the same place and hour, with an alternation of days in case of engagements or interruption; and this missive came to her when Alison, who loved him with all her woman's heart, was wondering hourly how she could get through day after day without him. 'At last! at last!' was the exclamation of each as the tryst was kept, and they met again. Their hearts were beating fast, and in unison, but in silence, and, if the meeting was a secret and a stealthy one, it was all the more thrilling to both. They were silent for a time, we say, but the silence was not without its eloquence, if the paradox may be used. There was the mystic communion of souls--the touch of hand that closed on hand, of lip that clung to lip--lips that knew not how to utter all that hovered there unsaid. 'You got my letter, darling?' said Bevil, after a time. 'I could not have been here else; but, for heaven's sake, do not write to me again,' said Alison, imploringly. 'Why?' 'For fear of papa; my correspondents are so few, his suspicions might be excited.' 'How hard is this!--surely we might write to each other occasionally,' urged Bevil, caressing her. 'No, my dearest; I dislike the idea of a correspondence that is clandestine, however romantic it may be; and if papa discovered it he would deem it so dishonourable in me--so dishonourable to himself.' 'But you will meet me?'