He had expected to see her a gloomy creature, self-conscious in her grief—but the child’s little fingers had loosened her heartstrings. If she was not gay, she was at least able to endure gaiety in others. She listened to the young man’s rhapsodies and paradoxes with a gentle smile; she admired her mother’s roses. She cast no shadow upon the quiet happiness of the summer afternoon, that tranquil contentedness which belongs to the loveliness of Nature, and which makes a blessed pause in the story of human passion and human discontent. It was one of those summer afternoons which make one say to oneself, “Could life be always thus what a blessed thing it were to live!” and then the sound of evening bells breaks the spell, and the shadows creep across the woods, and it is dinner time, and all that halcyon peace is over. How lovely she looked in her simply-made black gown, with its closely-fitting bodice and straight flowing skirt, of that thick lustreless silk which falls in such statuesque folds! The plain little white crape cap seemed in perfect harmony with that raven hair and pure white forehead. She was unlike any other woman Cuthbert Ramsay had ever known. There was not one touch of society slang, nor of the society manner of looking at life. She had passed through the fiery ordeal of two London seasons unscorched in the furnace. Love had been the purifying influence. She had never lived upon the excitement of every-day pleasures and volatile loves, the intermittent fever of flirtations and engagements that are on and off half a dozen times in a season. The influence that guided all her thoughts and all her actions had been one steadfast and single-minded love. She had cared for no praises but from her lover’s lips; she had dressed and danced, and played and sung, for none other than he. And now in her devotion to her child there was the same concentration and simplicity. She did not know that she was looking her loveliest in that severe black gown and white cap; she did not know that Cuthbert Ramsay admired her far too much for his peace. She only felt that he was very sincere in his devotion to the baby, and that he was a clever young man whose society suggested new ideas, and made her for the moment forgetful of her grief. It was evening before she left Cheriton. She had stayed later than usual, and the shadows were creeping over the park as she walked to the west gate with Theodore and his friend, the carriage following slowly with nurse and baby ensconced among light fleecy wraps, lest vesper breezes should visit that human blossom too roughly. Theodore had proposed the walk across the park, and Juanita had assented immediately. “I am always glad of a walk,” she said. “I have so few excuses for a ramble nowadays. I have to stay at home to take care of baby.” “Do you doubt the capabilities of that highly-experienced nurse?” asked Ramsay laughingly.