"Have you far to go?" he repeated, with the air, gentle as it was, of a man who was accustomed to have his questions answered. "Not far; to the little white gate there," she answered. "The little white gate--to Etheridge's, the artist's?" he said gently, with a tone of surprise. Stella bent her head; his eyes scanned her face. "You live there--are staying there?" "Yes." "I never saw you in Wyndward before." "No, I was never here till to-night." "Till to-night?" he echoed. "I knew that I had not seen you before." There was something in the tone, wholly unlike commonplace flattery, that brought the color to Stella's face. They had reached the gate by this time, he walking by her side, the bridle thrown over his arm, the great horse pacing quiet and lamb-like, and Stella stopped. "Good-night," she said. He stopped short and looked at her, his head thrown back, as she had seen it as he rode toward her, his eyes fixed intently on her face, and seeming to sink through her downcast eyes into her soul. "Good-night," he replied. "Wait." It was a word of command, for all its musical gentleness, and Stella, woman-like, stopped. "I am going away," he said, not abruptly, but with calm directness. "If you have only come to-night I shall not be able to learn your name; before I go, will you tell it me?" Stella smiled. "Why not?" he said, as she hesitated. "My name is Stella Etheridge, I am Mr. Etheridge's niece." "Stella!" he repeated. "Stella! Thank you. I shall not forget. My name," and he raised his hat with a simple gesture of proud humility, "is Wyndward--Leycester Wyndward." "I know it," said Stella, and the next moment she could have called the impulsive words back again. "You know it!" he said; "and came here only to-night! How is that?" Stella's brows contracted, dark and full they met across her brow in true southern fashion, and lent a significant eloquence to her face; she would have given much to avoid answering. "How is that?" he asked, his eyes fixed on hers. "It is very simple," she said, as if vexed at her hesitation. "I saw your portrait and--knew you." He smiled a curious smile. "Knew me before we met! I wonder----" he paused and his eyes seemed to read her thoughts. "I wonder whether you were prejudiced by what you saw by that forshadowing of me? Is that a fair question?" "It is a strange one," said Stella. "Is it? I will not press it. Good-night!" and he raised his hat. "Good-night, and good-bye," she said, and impulsively again she held out her hand. His eyes showed no surprise, whatever he may have felt, as he took her hand and held it. "No," he said, as he let her draw it away. "Not good-bye. I have changed my mind. I shall not go. It is only good-night," and with a smile flashing out of his eyes, he leapt upon his horse and was gone. CHAPTER III.