As if unable to sit still any longer, she rose and passed into the house through a French window which was standing wide open. The drawing-room, like the garden, spoke of orderly comfort. Everything was in its place, yet one could not say that the room or its furniture had an air of stiffness. Crossing over to the mantelpiece, Sophy lifted a letter-weight which had been placed above some neatly folded papers, and took from under it a telegram. She blushed slightly as she opened it, for she knew it by heart already. It was dated on the previous evening, and contained only the words: ‘Shall be with you to-morrow afternoon.--Hubert.’ This quiet dwelling was Hubert Blake’s home, the only home, at least, that he had ever known, though he generally lived in his chambers in London. His uncle, who had been his guardian, was now an old man and an invalid, or rather, a valetudinarian. He had been for the last ten years a widower; and Sophy Meredith, his wife’s niece, had managed his household and seen to his comfort since his wife’s death. Hubert and she had been, of course, thrown very much together. They called each other ‘cousin,’ though they were not really related to one another, and corresponded at intervals, sometimes in long, chatty epistles, oftener in brief notes. Four years had passed since Hubert had despatched those long letters from the Castle Farm; and for the last two years the inmates of Grove House had heard very little from him. He had been wandering over the face of the earth, trying to find occupation, excitement, anything to drive Margaret Lindsay’s image out of his head. After meeting her at Arrochar three years ago, he had thought himself cured of what he told himself was a halfinsane passion. He saw plainly that Margaret was not suited to him. Her mental powers, though considerable, were totally undeveloped. The world of literature and that of art were as unknown to her as the world of fashion. It would be an act of folly, he knew very well, to tie himself to one with whom he had so little in common, and who was so little likely to be moulded by any man as Margaret Lindsay. So he did not follow her back to Castle Farm. He stayed at Arrochar for a few days, and then wandered westwards. But the girl’s face haunted him. At times he was consumed with a desire to make this stately, simple, self-sufficient beauty his own, to feast his eyes continually on her loveliness, to watch her unfolding mind as she was brought into new scenes and surrounded with new ideas. He felt as if he could not live without seeing her again. Accordingly he ran down to Scotland a third time, and (under cover of his friendship with her brother) spent some days in her company. But her presence did not satisfy him. She was cold, narrow, unsympathetic, as she had always been. He went abroad, determined to stay away till he should forget her. Now, at last, he was coming home.