"I come, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass." —F. HEMANS. THE month of May had come—a real typical May; not one of our modern snarling specimens, which perhaps our forefathers knew as well as ourselves, but which, of course, no poet or historian ever wrote down on the "deathless page" of literature. A bright blaze of spring sunshine streamed upon the stiff row of trees in the green enclosure of Bourne Street, and made its way through the draped lace curtains of No. 9, where ingenuity had been hard at work to transform a most ordinary little drawing-room into a finished and aesthetic gem. It had to be done cheaply; but that matters less where clever fingers and cultivated taste have sway. Grange furniture was present—not Grange drawing-room furniture, which would have been far too large, but dainty small tables and pretty chairs, selected from all parts of the big house. Fulvia had combined tints gracefully, had put up brackets, had spent hours over finishing touches, had acted throughout as guiding spirit. If she could win a smile from Nigel for his mother's sake, she was content. She would have slaved herself to death for that reward. A worn outline of cheek was visible now, as if the last few weeks had left their mark. The sunshine which lit up her ruddy head showed this plainly. She was on the music stool, sewing hard at an antimacassar. They had not long been in the house, and nobody had yet grown used to its smallness. Anice fretted, and Daisy talked viciously of "kicking down those dreadful walls," and Mrs. Browning was sweetly resigned and sad. Fulvia alone did not care. She was sorry for others, not for herself. The one thing in life she cared for was pleasing Nigel; and having him, she had all she wanted. Fulvia could not entirely make him out. She was always trying to do so, yet always feeling that something lay below, which she could not reach. He was in many respects an altered being; himself, yet different. The light-heartedness, the sparkle, the fun, were gone. A "grave young man" strangers now called him; old-looking for his years, quiet, handsome, manly; one to be liked and esteemed; but to his own people, changed. Friends said how acutely he had felt his father's death, and how creditable the feeling was to him; also many supposed the lost wealth and lowered prospects to weigh upon him a good deal. Fulvia ascribed his seriousness to the unhappy secret about his father and her money. She made it her aim to cause him to forget, and yet she knew he never could forget. She would not let herself think of Ethel. He had enough pressing on him to render that additional cause needless.