The evening August sun--July had just past--shone full on its entrance gate; on a lady, young and fair, who was leaning over it. She may have been about three-and-twenty, and she was dressed in white, with ribbons in her hair. There was a remarkable refinement and delicacy in her face, her manners, in her appearance altogether; and her soft dark eyes had a sad expression. Did you, who may be reading this, ever observe that peculiar, sad look--not a passing sadness, or one caused by present care--but a fixed mournful look, implanted in the eyes by nature? It is not a common expression, or one often seen; rely upon it, when you do see it, it is but an index that the spirit is, or will be, sad within. Sauntering up the road towards the gate, encumbered with a basket, a rod, and other apparatus pertaining to the fishing art, strode a gentleman, carelessly switching the hedge as he passed it. No sad expression was there about him; rather the contrary. He was of middle height, very slender, with a frank pleasant face given to laughing, and dark auburn hair; his manner was light, his speech free and careless. Her face sparkled, at his approach, and she opened the gate long before he had gained it. "What sport, Robert? What have you brought?" "Brought you myself," was the gentleman's reply, as he passed in at the gate she held wide. "Thank you. How much is the toll?" As he bent to take the "toll," a kiss, she glanced shyly in his face and blushed--blushed brightly; although she was his wife of nearly three years' standing. In a retiring, impassioned earnest nature such as hers, it takes a great deal ere love can die out--a convulsion sometimes. With her it had not begun to die.