Then she peeped out to make sure that the coast was clear--not that she was not quite free to go where she pleased, but she dreaded eyes and titters--out at the door, to the corner of the lane where for many a Sunday afternoon there had been a quiet tryste and walk. Her heart beat so as almost to choke her, and she hardly durst raise her eyes to see if the accustomed figure awaited her. Was it the accustomed figure? Her eyes dazzled so under her little holland parasol that she could hardly see, and though there was a movement towards her, she felt unable to look up till she heard the words, 'Mary, at last!' and felt the clasp of the hand. 'Oh, Frank--I mean--' 'You mean Frank, your own Frank; nothing else to you.' 'Ought you?' And as she murmured she looked up. It was the same, but still a certain change was there, almost indescribable, but still to be felt, as if a line of toil and weariness had passed from the cheek. The quiet gray eyes were brighter and more eager, the bearing as if ten years had been taken from the forty, and though Mary did not perceive the details, the dress showing that his mourning had not come from the country town tailor and outfitter, even the soft hat a very different article from that which was wont to replace the well-cherished tall one of Sunday mornings. 'I had not much time,' he said, 'but I thought this would be of the most use,' and he began clasping on her arm a gold bracelet with a tiny watch on it. 'I thought you would like best to keep our old ring.' 'If--if I ought to keep it at all,' she faltered. 'Now, Mary, I will not have an afternoon spoilt by any folly of that sort,' he said. 'Is it folly? Nay, listen. Should you not get on far far better without such a poor little stupid thing as I am?' 'I always thought I was the stupid one.' 'You--but you are a man.' 'So much the worse!' 'Yes; but, Frank, don't you see what I mean? This thing has come to you, and you can't help it, and you are descended from these people really; but it would be choice for me, and I could not bear to feel that you were ashamed of me.' 'Never!' he exclaimed. 'Look here, Mary. What should I do without you to come back to and be at rest with? All the time I was talking to those ladies and going through those fine rooms, I was thinking of the one comfort I should have when I have you all to myself. See,' he added, going over the arguments that he had no doubt prepared, 'it is not as if you were like poor Emma. You are a lady all over, and have always lived with ladies; and yet you are not too grand for me. Think what you would leave me to--to be wretched by myself, or else-- I could never be at home with those high-bred folk. I felt it every moment, though Miss Morton was very kind, and even wanted me to call her Birdie. I _did_ feel thankful I could tell her I was engaged.' 'You did!' 'Yes; and she was very kind, and said she was glad of it, and hoped soon to know you.'