‘I do not, indeed. I think it only natural that you should break through such a melancholy determination. Besides, no doubt’—with increasing coldness—‘you had an inducement.’ ‘Yes, yes; I had,’ says she quickly. ‘Ah!’ A pause. ‘Someone you have seen lately?’ ‘Quite lately.’ Second pause, and prolonged. ‘I suppose you will soon see a way out of all your difficulties?’ No doubt she had fallen in love with Crosby, and he with her, and— ‘No; I don’t think there is any chance of that,’ says she mournfully. ‘But when Su—Miss Barry asked me to come here, I couldn’t resist it. You can see for yourself what an inducement she is.’ Susan! is it only Susan? He pulls himself up sharply. Well, and if so, where is the matter for rejoicing? Of course, being left in a sense her guardian by the Professor, he is bound to feel an interest in her; but a vague interest such as that should not be accompanied by this quick relief, this sudden sensation of—of what? Dominick, just behind him, is singing at the top of his lungs—sound ones: ‘As I walked out wid Dinah, De other afternoon, De day could not be finer, Ho! de ring-tailed coon!’ He is evidently pointing this nigger melody at Betty, who has been rash enough to go walking out with him. She has gone even farther. She has condescended to sing a second to his exceedingly loud first, a stroke of genius on her part, as it has taken the wind out of his sails so far as his belief in his powers of teasing her (on this occasion, at all events) are concerned. Mr. Wyndham takes the opportunity of the second verse coming to a thrilling conclusion to break off his conversation with Ella. And now, indeed, they are all at the little green gate, and are saying their adieus to her. And presently they have all gone away again, and Ella, standing inside, feels as if life and joy and all things have been shut off from her with the locking of that small green gate. * * * * * ‘Isn’t she pretty?’ cries Susan enthusiastically, when they have bidden good-bye to Crosby and Wyndham too, and are back again on their own small lawn. ‘She’s a regular bud,’ says Dom, striking a tragic attitude. He doesn’t mean anything really, but Carew, with darkling brow, goes up to him. ‘I think you ought to speak more respectfully of her,’ says he. ‘It isn’t because she is alone in the world that one should throw stones at her.’