It was a sweet July evening: the sun was near his setting, and was casting long shadows across the lawn at the back of "The Shrubbery." Mrs Franklin was sitting on a garden seat reading, her attention divided between her book and the glowing tints of a bed of flowers all ablaze with variegated beauty. A little shaded walk turned off near this seat into the kitchen garden, which was separated from the flower garden in this quarter by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a trout stream. The ravine was crossed by a rustic bridge. Mr John Randolph had been calling at the house with some music, and, being now looked upon more in the light of a friend than an instructor, had the privilege of making a short cut to the turnpike road over this foot bridge and through the kitchen garden. Mark Rothwell also usually availed himself of this more direct approach to the house. On the present occasion the two young men met in the kitchen garden, and passed each other by without recognition, Mark hurrying forward to make his proposal, his already intense excitement inflamed by strong drink, which he had taken with less caution than on his ordinary visits to "The Shrubbery"; John Randolph lingering on his way in a somewhat discontented mood, which was not improved by the sight of Mark. Suddenly the stillness was broken by a loud scream and cry for help: it was Mary Franklin's voice. Both the young men rushed towards the bridge, and beheld a sight which filled them with dismay. Mary had strolled from her mother's side to the little foot bridge, and, filled with sorrowful thoughts, leant against the rustic parapet. The woodwork, which was inwardly decayed, gave way beneath her weight; she tried to recover herself but in vain, and fell over the side of the bridge, still, however, managing to keep herself from plunging into the stream by clinging to a creaking fragment of the broken rails. Her dress also helped to stay her up, having become entangled with the woodwork. Mark reached the bridge first, but was so confused by drink and excitement that he scarcely knew what he was doing, when he felt himself flung aside by the strong arm of John Randolph, who sprang forward, and stooping down endeavoured to raise the poor terrified girl, but for a few moments without success: indeed his own strength began to fail, and it seemed as if both must be precipitated into the stream, if assistance had not come from another quarter. The gardener hearing the cries hurried up, and, lending his powerful help, Mary was delivered from her peril, and was carried, fainting and bruised, into the house by her two rescuers, before Mark Rothwell had fairly recovered himself from the fall which John Randolph had given him in his haste. But now, boiling with wrath and vexation, Mark made his way to the front door, and disregarding in the blindness of his passion the sight of Mary just recovering consciousness, and of Mrs Franklin who was bending over her