‘You are right, my good woman,’ says Mrs. Prior; ‘I really don’t think I was ever so anxious to make the acquaintance of anyone before.... Round that corner, you say? Thank you. I shall certainly tell my nephew what a trustworthy guardian you make.’ She parts with Mrs. Denis with a little gracious bow, and a sudden swift change of countenance that strikes that worthy woman at the time—but unfortunately works out a little late. Stepping quickly in the direction indicated, Mrs. Prior turns the corner and goes along the southern border of the pretty cottage until she reaches a small iron gate that leads to the garden proper. In here, soft perfumes meet one in the air, and delicate tints delight the eye. The little walks run here and there, the grasses grow, and from the flowering shrubs sweet trills are heard, sounds beautiful, and ‘Not sooner heard Than answered, doubled, trebled more, Voice of an Eden in the bird, Renewing with his pipe of four The sob; a troubled Eden, rich In throb of heart.’ The grandeur of the dying autumn strikes through all; for over there, as a background to the still brilliant flowers, are fading yellows, and sad reds, and leaves russet-brown, more lovely now, perhaps, than when a life dwelt in them. Mrs. Prior moves through all these things untouched by their beauty—on one thought bent. And all at once the subject of her thought lies there before her. The clearest, sweetest thought! Ella, on one of the many small paths, is standing as if struck by some great surprise. She is looking at Mrs. Prior earnestly, half fearfully, with eager searching in her large dark eyes, as of one trying to work out some problem that had been suggested many years ago. The sight of the girl, standing there with her hand pressed against her forehead as if to compel thought, drives the anger she is feeling even deeper into Mrs. Prior’s soul. Such an attitude! As if not understanding! The absurd put-on innocence of it is positively—well, disgusting! And always Ella stands looking at her, as if frightened by the sudden unexpected visitor, but presently through her fear and astonishment another look springs into life. Her eyes widen—she does nothing, she says nothing, but anyone looking on would say that the girl all at once had remembered. But something terribly vague had touched her—something startling out of the past that until that moment had lain dead. Oh, surely she knows this lady, has met her somewhere. As if impelled by this mad fancy, she goes quickly towards Mrs. Prior. ‘I—do I know you?’ asks she, in a low tense way. ‘I think not,’ says Mrs. Prior, in her calm _trainante_ voice, that is now insolent to a degree. A faint, most cruel smile plays upon her lips. ‘You, and such as you, are seldom known by—us.’