It was not often that such thoughts as these disturbed the dull tranquillity of Cecil O'Boyneville's mind. She had learned to think very calmly of Hector Gordon, and the unknown future that might have been hers, long before she had plighted her faith to the barrister; and it was only now and then that the picture of the past flashed for a moment upon her mental vision, evoked into life and brightness by some mystic power of association. She had learned long ago to think of the Scottish captain almost as we think of the dead; and in counting the years that had passed since that delicious autumn holiday, she marvelled to find how few they were. It seemed so long since she had seen that quiet Hampshire coast--so long since she had sat in the shadowy drawing-room listening to the low music of her lover's voice. The season came to a close, Trinity Term ended, and the long vacation began. Laurence O'Boyneville implored his wife to take up her abode at some pleasant watering-place while he went on circuit. "You can ask your aunt to go with you, Cecil," he said; "and in that case you'll have the use of her maid, if you don't care about taking one of your own. Suppose we say Ryde; that's as nice a place as you can go to. I'll run across and take lodgings for you, and I'll get you a basket-chaise and a stout pony, that you can drive about the island to your heart's content. I want to see the sweet wild-rose tint come back to your cheeks, darling. You've been looking very pale lately." It was not often that the speech of Laurence O'Boyneville the husband assimilated so nearly to that of Laurence O'Boyneville the lover, and Cecil rewarded him with a grateful smile. "You are very kind, Laurence," she said; "but I know my aunt has made all manner of arrangements for the autumn and winter. She told me a few days ago that she has not a week disengaged. And I really don't care at all about going to the sea-side. I would just as soon remain in town while you are away." "My darling girl," exclaimed the barrister, "if you stay in London all the summer you'll be ill." But again and again Lady Cecil protested that she would be contented to spend her summer in Bloomsbury. If she could have gone to some quiet sea-coast village alone, with no companions except her books and music, she would have been very well pleased to escape from the wilderness of streets and squares. But a two-months' sojourn at a fashionable watering-place with a vivacious matron was something more than Cecil felt herself able to endure; and Mr. O'Boyneville seemed to take it for granted that his young wife must be protected by a chaperon when she left his sheltering wing. "If you _won't_ go to the sea-side," he said, "you might at least spend a few weeks with the Mountjoys. I know they'd be delighted to have you." "But indeed, Laurence, I shall be happier at home," Cecil pleaded; "I had so much visiting in country-houses, you know, before our marriage."