"Yes, do go!" she said gently, pityingly. Cyril could better have done without the pity: but Mr. Trevelyan's words took effect. "I must beg of you, Cyril, not to delay. For your own sake as well as mine. I cannot wait any longer, and I insist upon your coming," Miss Devereux went on with querulous repetition. "Good-bye," said Mr. Trevelyan. He took Cyril's hand, with a warm grasp which spoke volumes: and from that hour, he had a hold upon the young baronet. "Come and see us again soon." Cyril crimsoned to the roots of his hair, and stepped in. "Poor boy: it is hard upon him," muttered the clergyman, as they drove off, Sybella talking still. CHAPTER III. HUSBAND AND WIFE. "Thus each retains his notions, every one." JANE TAYLOR. DUTTON PARK stood on sufficiently high ground to command a view of the town, and of the surrounding country. In one direction Ripley Brow might be seen, the Brow standing up boldly, more than two miles away. Between, the river wound in curves among low green banks and meadows, after its rush through the gorge. On a fine day, such as this, anyone walking in the Park grounds could see the "S-like" windings shine here and there with the brightness of burnished metal in the sunshine; grey spaces of water intervening. There were two ways of reaching the house from the main road. One was by a shady drive, well bowered, the trees meeting overhead in a continuous arch. The other lay through open park-like fields, ending in two large ponds, one on either side of the garden entrance. Following the latter road, Mr. Trevelyan and Jean lingered three or four minutes to watch the swans; then they crossed the wide lawn of the garden, which was sprinkled with pines and yews. Beds of massed colouring, closely packed, showed rich and artistic arrangements of tints. The house was extensive, white and low, guiltless of creepers, and on one side, sheltered by a group of mighty elms. The great drawing-room, over forty-five feet long, was used only on state occasions. Evelyn's favourite resort for ordinary purposes was the library, a long four-windowed room, well lined with books. General Villiers had his private study besides, and Evelyn had her boudoir; but when at home, she was usually to be found in the library. On this particular afternoon, she stood in the end window, a large bow, gazing somewhat pensively upon the outer view: not as if she very much cared for it. At twenty-five, Evelyn well fulfilled the promise of her girlhood, so far as actual beauty was concerned. The delicacy of form and feature, the perfection of colouring, the grace of movement, were unchanged. They had only ripened into a fuller loveliness, with the addition of a finished repose and graciousness of manner, an exquisite high-bred ease, which no mere girl can show.