Alas! and a faint flush stole over her cheek, and a long sigh stole from her lips--alas! it was that other--Jack Newcombe--who was bad; it was he whom she was to avoid. And so, notwithstanding that she was in the very city of her dreams, she fell asleep with a vague sadness in her heart. Quiet as Walmington Square is, the noise of the market carts passing to Covent Garden awoke her soon after dawn. She looked round with a stare of amazement as her eyes fell upon the dainty room, with its costly furniture and rich hangings, and listened for a moment, as if expecting to hear the rustle of the great oaks which surrounded the cottage at Warden; then she remembered the change that had befallen her, and springing out of bed, ran to the window. All the square was asleep; the blinds were closely drawn in all the houses, and only the birds on the trees seemed thoroughly awake. She could hear the market carts rumbling in the great thoroughfare beyond, and as she had gone asleep with the rattle of wheels in her ears, she asked herself, wonderingly: "Does London never rest?" She remembered that Mrs. Davenant had showed her a bathroom communicating by a door from her own room, and then--with her cold water was as necessary as air--went and had her bath; then she dressed herself, and, opening her door, went downstairs. To her amazement, all the house seemed wrapped in slumber. At home, at the cottage at Warden, Gideon and all of them were up with the lark, and life began with the morning sun. She stole into the drawing-room, and, unfastening the shutters with some little difficulty, opened the window and leaned out to breathe the fresh air; but it seemed as if the air was asleep, too, or, in its journey from the country, had lost itself in the maze of houses, and failed to reach Walmington Square. Una looked out dreamily, wondering who and what sort of people lived in the huge blocks of dwellings that surrounded her, and wondered, faintly, whether she could be looking at the spot where Jack Newcombe dwelt. She could not guess that Jack had not come back from Hurst Leigh yet, but was waiting for the squire's funeral. Instinctively she turned to the table and took up the album and went back to the window with the book open at the page which contained Jack's portrait. How beautiful the face was! And yet, she thought, with a warm glow in her eyes, that she had seen it look still more beautiful, as she had looked down at it the morning he lay sleeping at her feet. Presently a servant came into the room, and startled at the sight of the white figure by the window, uttered an exclamation. "Good-morning," said Una. Closing the book she came forward and held up her face to be kissed, as she had always done to Mrs. Rolfe. The maid--a pretty young girl, fresh from Devonshire--stared at her and looked half-frightened, while a crimson flush of embarrassment came into her face. "Good-morning, miss," she said, nervously, and hastily turned and fled.