Edgar Adelon pursued his course with a well-pleased smile and a light step. His conversation with Clive was a relief to him; it was something which he had long seen must come, which he had dreaded, and it was now over. Five minutes brought him in sight of the house towards which his steps were bent; and he paused for a moment, with joyful beating of the heart, to look at it, as it stood rising out of its trees upon the opposite side of the dell, as if it were perched upon the top of a high cliff overhanging the valley; though, in truth, beneath the covering of the wood was stretched a soft and easy descent, with manifold walks and paths leading to the margin of the little stream. It is no unpleasant thing to pause and gaze into the sparkling wine of the cup of joy before we quaff it: and such was the act of Edgar Adelon at that moment, although his whole heart was full of those tremulous emotions which are only combined with the intense and thirsty expectation of youth. Then with a wild bound he darted down the road, crossed the little bridge, and ran up the opposite slope. He entered the yard of the building at once, and no dogs barked at him. A small terrier came and wagged his tail, and the great mastiff crept slowly out of his kennel, and stretched himself in the morning sunshine. Edgar Adelon must have been often there before. He walked into the house, too, without ceremony, and his question to the first woman-servant he met was, "Where is Helen?" but he corrected it instantly into "Where is Miss Clive?" The woman smiled archly, and told him where she was; and a moment after, Edgar was seated beside her on a sofa in the little drawing-room which I have described. I do not know that it would be altogether fair or just to detail all that passed between them; but certainly Edgar's arm stole round the beautiful girl's waist, and he gazed into her dark eyes and saw the light of love in them. He made her tell him all that happened, that is to say, all that she chose to tell; for she refused to say how or why she was out watching upon the road at a late hour of the evening. He was of a trustful heart, however; and when she first answered, with a gay look, "I went to meet a lover, to be sure, Edgar," he only laughed and kissed her cheek, saying, "You cannot make me jealous, Helen." "That is, I suppose, because you do not love me sufficiently," said Helen Clive. "No, love," he replied, "it is because I esteem you too much." And then he went on to make her tell him when the surgeon had arrived, and whether the setting of her arm had pained her much, and whether she was quite, quite sure that she was not otherwise hurt. "My foot a little," replied his fair companion; "it is somewhat swelled; don't you see, Edgar?" And he knelt down to look, and kissed it with as much devotion as ever a pilgrim of his own faith kissed the slipper of the pope.