And Esther herself, having conceived a mortal aversion for the shelter of the ginger-canopied pavilion, wraps a great shawl round her, and, sitting down on the deep window-seat, watches for the first streaks of dawn, which, on these winter mornings, are long, long coming. Though it is a winter night, her hands burn hot and dry; for the last few days she has had a sharp pain in her side--to-night it is getting yet sharper; it begins to hurt her to draw her breath. Two thoughts keep buzzing about her brain: "I am going to be ill," and "I am going to be turned away." She throws aside her shawl, but the dry burning still continues. She has sat here for hours now, and the dawn's feet are beginning slowly to climb the steps from the eastern gate. The battle between day and night is yet undecided; almost equally they divide the sky between them. Perhaps it is the night's excitement that has given her this fever; perhaps the cold morning air would refresh her. She waits until day's victory is complete, and then--being already dressed--puts on her hat and jacket, and steals noiselessly downstairs, to the garden door that has been the cause of so much mischief, out into the garden between the brown earthed beds, where the winter aconite's small yellow heads and green tippets are beginning to push themselves into sight, and thence into the park. There is no wind abroad, only heavy rain-clouds outwalling the infant sun, and the unarmed air has a piercing chillness in it. Esther has not proceeded far, and is standing thoughtful on the brow of a little knoll, from whence one looks down on the dark flag-fringed pool, when she is aware of a footstep behind her; and the next instant St. John Gerard stands by her side. "What have you come here for? Why have you followed me?" she asks, turning upon him in hasty dismay. "Miss Blessington's windows look this way--she will see us together." "Let her see us," he answers, doggedly. "She will never believe that it was by accident we have met," cries poor Esther, in great agitation. "She will be right, then; it is not accident." "She will think that it was an appointment!" she says, clasping her hands in unfeigned distress. "Let her think so!" "It is very well for you to talk in this way," she says, with passionate reproach. "You are a man--you may defy the opinion of the world; but is it so easy for me?" "Why should her opinion concern either you or me?" he inquires, gravely. "What is she to either of us? Did not you last night, with your own ears, hear my dismissal pronounced?" She stoops her head until her hat almost conceals her face from him. "She was angry," she says, in a low voice; "she will be sorry for the things she said; she will forgive you." "Will she?" he answers, quietly smiling. "I think not; to tell you the truth, I don't mean to ask her." She lifts her face, suddenly earnest, to him.