The days and weeks and months of Lady Wynde’s widowhood passed on without event. She carried herself circumspectly in the eyes of the world. No visitors were invited to Hawkhurst, and her ladyship’s visits to London were few and far between. She seldom went to Canterbury, and her drives about the neighborhood of Hawkhurst were always of the most funereal description, with black coach, black horses and black attire, and a slow gait. Her ladyship was found every Sunday in the baronet’s great square pew in the little Wyndham church, and as she always sat with the silken curtains drawn, no one could know that she was not absorbed in the church services. In short, during the year she had determined to devote to mourning for her dead husband, the conduct of Lady Wynde was such as to deepen her popularity throughout the county. Sir John Freise enthusiastically declared her an angel, her neighbors praised her, and only honest Mr. Atkins shook his head doubtfully when her virtues were lauded, and dared to suggest that she might not be all she seemed. The year slowly wore away, and midsummer had come again. The languor of Lady Wynde’s dull existence had begun to give place to a strange restlessness. Her deep mourning had grown odious in her sight, and was replaced by the lovely combinations of white and black, the delicate lavenders and soft gray hues which are supposed to indicate a mitigated grief. The hideous widow’s cap, not at all becoming to her ladyship, was exchanged for lavender ribbons in her hair, and jewels took the place of the orthodox mourning ornaments of jet. In her “half mourning,” Lady Wynde appeared more than ever a strikingly handsome woman. “Artress,” she said one morning to her gray companion, as she looked out of her sitting-room window upon the fair domain of Hawkhurst, “this dreaded year is over at last. I have satisfied the demands of society; I have hoodwinked the jealous and envious eyes of neighbors, and am free at last. If I were to marry to-morrow, no one could say that I had not treated the memory of Sir Harold Wynde with respect. With the sacrifice of but little over two years of my life, I have won a fine income, a splendid home during Neva’s minority, and the guardianship of one of the greatest heiresses in England. That office is worth three thousand a year to me while I hold it. Surely I have played my part well.” “You have indeed,” echoed Artress. “Neva must come home soon, but my own business must be settled before her advent on the scene. I shall write to Craven immediately. I will have no further delay.” She went to a small, beautifully inlaid writing desk, which stood in a recessed window, and sitting down by it, wrote upon heavy velvet paper the following words: “CRAVEN: You may come to me at last. There is no further obstacle between us. “OCTAVIA.” This brief missive she inclosed in a square envelope, and stamped with pale green wax and her favorite device.