"Curious! Then I suppose the walk has no longer any associations----" "Oh, but it has--bitter associations! We left the path to get some asparagus, and my gown caught in a bramble-bush, and a dog barked----" The first soft notes of the violins checked the tragic sequel of her tale, and the music swelled into a pathetic wailing waltz, which brought the first part of the programme to an end. Sir Douglas came during the interval to take them away, and Mr Monteith walked down with them to the station. "I am sorry there is no room for me at the hotel," he said, as he stood with Lucy on the platform. "Pray, don't take my word for it. I don't 'run the shanty.' Perhaps you could get a bed." "What is the use, if people would be sorry to see an old acquaintance?" "How can you say such things?" said Lucy, looking up at him cordially. "I am sure there are some old ladies in the hotel who would be delighted to see you." "But no young ones?" "I can't answer for them." "You can for yourself." "Oh yes." "And you don't care one way or the other?" "No;" she shook her head slowly and regretfully. "Not at all?" "Not at all." "Not the least bit in the world?" Lucy lifted her eyes again demurely. "When one comes to deal with such very small quantities, Mr Monteith," she said, "it is difficult to speak with scientific accuracy. If you really care to know----" "Yes?" "Where are the Munros?" "In the next carriage. Do finish your sentence." "I don't remember what I was going to say," said Lucy calmly. "A sure proof, my old nurse used to tell me, that it was better unsaid." She sprang lightly up the high step of the carriage, and then turned to say good-bye. The colour in her cheeks was very bright. Ten minutes later she seemed to have forgotten everything except the wonderful afterglow, which reddened the rocks and trees, and converted the whole surface of the sea into one blazing ruby shield. Sir Douglas was nodding over his newspaper. Lucy laid her hand on Lady Munro's soft fur. "You have been very good to me," she said. "I don't know how to thank you. I really think you have opened the gates of Paradise to me." The words suggested a meaning that Lady Munro did not altogether like, but she answered lightly,-- "It has been a great pleasure to all of us to have you, dear; but you know we don't mean to let you go on Thursday." Lucy smiled. "I must," she said sadly. "A week hence it will all seem like a beautiful dream--a dream that will last me all my life." "Well, I am glad to think the roses in your cheeks are no dream, and I hope they will last you all your life, too." And then the careless words re-echoed through her mind with a deeper significance, and she wished Sir Douglas would wake up and talk, even if it were only to grumble. That night there were two private conversations. Evelyn had gone into Lucy's room to brush her hair in company.