The sun had not yet risen high in the heavens, and the dew still lay in silver sheets upon the meads, when Lady Lucy, having left her chamber, was minded to take to take a walk abroad. She had protected her head with a scarf which was lifted by the strong autumn breeze, so that its fringes and her clustering curls were alike set dancing; and she had thrust her little feet into thin slippers with very high heels, most unfit for the wanderings on which she was bent; but nevertheless, having first tripped down the flagged path between the lavender hedges, and found the gates still closed, she had stolen up the weed-grown track that led round the house, and made her way through the shrubberies, laughing as the wet leaves flapped in her face, and peering round her with curious delighted eyes. And suddenly, pushing through an overgrown arch of yew and holly that had once been clipped into fantastic shapes, she came face to face with John Cotley, standing stock-still in the middle of the alley, with one hand pressed to his brow and the other clutching at his bosom. Then what must Lady Lucy do on her perceiving the young man’s violent start and blush, but burst into the sweetest, gayest little trill of laughter, while poor John first reddened to the roots of his disordered hair, and then grew pale as death, and drew his coat and waistcoat together hastily, and stammered at last as she laughed on— “Madam, I crave your pardon—I—I humbly crave your pardon.” “For what, my good sir?” cried she. “For taking a morning stroll in your own grounds, or for being discovered in such a profound reverie? Nay, sir, it is rather I who should ask pardon for breaking in so suddenly on what seemed to be very serious reflections, and for laughing so rudely. But I vow it was droll and unexpected to find you could assume so tragic an air—and then your start—your look of surprise! Pray, sir, did you think I had fallen from the clouds?” John blushed again, and, finding that she continued to look upon him smilingly and very kindly, took courage, and said gently— “’Twas folly in me to appear surprised, madam, for I believe that angels do sometimes descend from the clouds.” “Vastly well, sir,” said she. “Pray where did you learn to pay compliments? I had thought they were not easily come by in the country.” “Nay, madam,” sighed poor John, ruefully. “I fear I should prove a poor scholar were I to attempt to learn the art of flattery. In saying that you appear to me to be an angel I did but speak the truth.” Lady Lucy stopped laughing, and hung down her head in a manner quite inexplicable to John Cotley. “An angel!” she said. “Ah, sir, what do you know of me.” “Only what my eyes have shown me, madam,” said John, and then emboldened by a certain timid protest in her downcast face, he added warmly, “only what my heart has told me.”