He seized his hat and rushed to the post. He was in time, and now that the step had been taken, he walked back looking more than usually handsome and tall, pleased to see the children run out of school and roll on the grass, pleased to linger with the General. “Where are you going, sir?” said the old man. “I'm going to my studio to play the fiddle. Will you come? I'll give you a glass of sherry, and--” “Never touch anything, except at meals. I used to when I was as young as you, but not now. But I will go and hear a little music.” Glad to have a companion, Frank took out the violin, and he played all the melodies he knew; and his mind ran chiefly on Schubert and Gounod. The “Soir,” the “Printemps,” and “La Chanson du Printemps” carried his soul away, nor could he forbear to sing when he came to the phrase, “La Neige des Pommiers.” When musical emotion ran dry he tried painting, but with poor result. During dinner he grew fevered and eager to see Maggie, and mad to tell her that he loved her, and could love none but her. At half-past eight the torture of suspense was more than he could endure, and he decided that he would go to the Manor House. He passed round the block of cottages, and got into the path that between the palings led through the meadows. It was a soft summer evening--moonlight and sunset played in gentle antagonism, and in a garden hat he saw Maggie coming towards him. He noticed the pink shawl about her shoulders, and the thought struck him, “had she come to ask him to elope.” She stopped, and she hesitated as if she were going to turn back again. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, speaking with difficulty, “but I wanted you to get this before nine.” “Never mind, darling,” he answered, smiling; “you can tell me all about it--it will be sweeter to hear you talk. Which way shall we go?” “I really don't think I can now; father doesn't know I am out. This letter will--” “No, no; I cannot bear to part with you. How pretty you look in that hat! Come.” “No, Frank, I cannot now, and you had better leave me. I cannot walk with you to-night. Read this letter.” “Then am I--is it really so?” said Frank, growing suddenly pale. “You will not have me?” “You must read this letter, it will tell you all. I am truly sorry, but I did not know you cared for me--at least not like that. I don't think I could, I really don't. But I don't know what I am saying. How unfortunate it was meeting you. I but thought to run round and leave the letter, it would have explained all better than I could. We have known you so long. You will forgive me?”