Cyril went away well pleased with himself, and resolved to lose no more time in his wooing. It had occurred to him that it was about time he had an independent home of his own. Something in the home atmosphere had become uncongenial to him. North was cool, and rather avoided his society, and Cyril had very uneasy moments sometimes when his brother occasionally came to him with certain rather pointed questions, the drift of which he seldom altogether understood. Ray had been rather off-hand with him ever since that luckless fire, the memory of which still made his cheeks tingle, and he often fancied that his prestige in his native place had considerably gone down. Oscar’s face was a continual reproach to him. He was tired of his life in Isingford, anxious for a sphere of his own. But a sphere implied a centre and a home, and a home meant a wife. Cyril turned matters over in his mind a few times whether or not to go out to Madeira and propose to Effie with her rich dowry, or to content himself with the much more attractive May and her smaller fortune. In the end he decided upon the latter course. Effie’s money was certain to be tied up very tight. He had more hopes of getting things more to his liking in dealing with May’s parents. They were not business people. They would probably have easier ideas, and May was out and away a more attractive girl than Effie; besides, a delicate ailing wife would be a nuisance. Cyril wanted to be the centre of attraction in his own home, not to have to spend his time fussing after his wife. So dressing himself very carefully in a riding suit which he greatly fancied, he ordered the best horse to be obtained at the livery stables, and rode gaily off towards Monckton Manor. May was in the garden. The sun was shining brightly, and the birds were singing with that kind of eager rapture which is only heard in the spring. February was waning, and though the March winds were still to come, the present warmth was all the more welcome. Celandines lifted their golden cups to the caress of the sunshine, and primroses were to be found gemming the banks, whilst in garden borders crocuses made a joyous blaze, and the daffodils began to push up their bloom buds as though eager to show that they would not be much behind. A servant came out to her from her house. “Mr. Cossart has called and would like to see you, miss.” May’s eyes lighted and a little flush stole into her cheek. It was not Saturday, so there must be something special in this visit. Perhaps the very fact that it was unusual helped to induce that wave of subdued excitement. Something special must have occurred. He must be wanting something from her. May turned at once and went eagerly towards the house. A tall figure came out into the sunshine of the terrace, and suddenly all the light faded out of May’s face. She turned to the servant almost sharply. “You said it was Mr. Cossart,” she said.