‘She is really not at home, sir,’ was the reply, ‘but I did not see her go out; I suppose she went through the garden. Mr Walcheren went out better than an hour ago, for I saw him pass through the hall myself.’ ‘Do you know when they are likely to be in?’ next asked the visitor. ‘I can’t say for certain, sir, but their lunch is ordered for three o’clock.’ ‘Very well; I will return at three.’ ‘What name shall I say, sir?’ ‘You need say no name. I will send it up on my return,’ said Henry Hindes as he walked away. He was disappointed that he had not found Jenny at home and alone, yet it was hardly natural that a young husband and wife should separate on the very morning after their wedding-day. But we are all apt to be unreasonable when our wishes are thwarted. However, he made up his mind to call again at three o’clock. Whether alone or together, he could not return to Hampstead without seeing Jenny, and delivering to her the message with which her father had entrusted him. So he must wile away the intervening hours as best he could. He stopped at the bar to have a brandy-and-soda, not the first by several, that he had taken that morning to build up his courage for the coming interview, and sustain him under the shock which the news of her marriage had been to him. And then he wandered forth into the town and took his way idly up the very path to the cliffs that Jenny had trodden before him. He had not walked, slowly and clumsily, for more than half an hour when he came upon her, seated on the close-cropped herbage, with her eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the water, and her book lying unheeded in her lap. Henry Hindes’ heart gave a great leap and throb as he recognised the lovely features, shaded by a broad chip hat, trimmed with field flowers, and the graceful figure of the beauty of Hampstead. Here was an opportunity, for which he had never hoped--to find her thus alone and unoccupied, amidst the glories of Nature, with her attention free to listen to his pleadings on her parents’ behalf. His involuntary exclamation as he encountered her, caused Jenny to look round, and the hot blush of shame that flooded her face at seeing him proved that she was not dead to the knowledge that she had done something to blush for. ‘Mr Hindes!’ she said, with a little gasp as if of fear, ‘what has induced you to follow me?’ ‘Nothing but the heartiest interest in your welfare, Jenny, you may be sure of that! Did you think that we could hear the news of your marriage at Hampstead without emotion? It paralysed us, Jenny! We could not believe it without further proof--without your assurance that it was undertaken of your own free will.’ ‘My father is the proper person to put such questions to me,’ replied Jenny, proudly. ‘If he wished them answered, why did he not come to Dover himself, instead of sending you?’