Distress and dismay--it is not hard to see them both in Menie Laurie’s face, so pale and full of thought, as she leans upon the wall here among the wet leaves, looking out. Yes, she is looking out, fixedly and long, but not upon the misty far-away London, not upon the pleasant slope of green, the retired and quiet houses, the whispering neighbour trees. Something has brought the dreamy distant future, the unknown country, bright and far away--brought it close upon her, laid it at her feet. Her own living breath this moment stirs the atmosphere of this still unaccomplished world; her foot is stayed upon its threshold. No more vague fears--no more mere clouds upon the joyous firmament--but close before her, dark and tangible, the crisis and decision--the turning-point of heart and hope. Before her wistful eyes lie two clear paths, winding before her into the evening sky. Two; but the spectre of a third comes in upon her--a life distraught and barren of all comfort--a fate irrevocable, not to be changed or softened; and Menie’s heart is deadly sick in her poor breast, and faints for fear. Alas for Menie Laurie’s quiet heart! She was sad yesterday. Yesterday she saw a cloudy sword, suspended in the skies, wavering and threatening above her unguarded head; to-day she looks no longer at this imaginative menace. From another unfeared quarter there has fallen a real blow. CHAPTER XX. With the heat and flush of excitement upon his face, Randall Home made his way across the glistening lawn, and through the wet shrubs--for there had been rain--to that corner of the garden where he had seen Menie disappear. Impatiently his foot rung upon the gravel path, and crushed the fallen branches: something of an angry glow was in his eye, and heated and passionate was the colour on his cheek. “You are here, Menie!” he exclaimed. “I think you might have had sufficient respect for me to do what you could to prevent this last passage of arms.” “Respect!” Menie looked at him with doubtful apprehension. She thought the distress of her mind must have dulled and blunted her nerves; and repeated the word vacantly, scarcely knowing what it meant. “I said respect. Is it so presumptuous an idea?” said Randall, with his cold sarcastic smile. But Menie made no answer. Drawing back with a timid frightened motion, which did not belong to her natural character, she stood so very pale, and chill, and tearful, that you could have found nowhere a more complete and emphatic contrast than she made to her betrothed. The one so full of strength and vigour, stout independence and glowing resentment--the other with all her life gone out of her, as it seemed, quenched and subdued in her tears. “You have avoided me in the house--you will not speak to me now,” said Randall. “Menie, Menie, what does this mean?” For Menie had not been able to conceal from him that she was weeping. “It is no matter, Randall,” said Menie; “it is no matter.”