The poor girl was already stronger from the mere prospect of going home again. She moved restlessly on her couch, half mechanically put her hand to the curtain, pulled it aside, looked out, faced the sun and the sea, and did not draw back. My mind was made up. I left her, and went to find Ethelwyn. She heartily approved of the proposal for Connie’s sake, and said that it would be scarcely less agreeable to herself. I could see a certain troubled look above her eyes, however. “You are thinking of Wynnie,” I said. “Yes. It is hard to make one sad for the sake of the rest.” “True. But it is one of the world’s recognised necessities.” “No doubt.” “Besides, you don’t suppose Percivale can stay here the whole winter. They must part some time.” “Of course. Only they did not expect it so soon.” But here my wife was mistaken. I went to my study to write to Weir. I had hardly finished my letter when Walter came to say that Mr. Percivale wished to see me. I told him to show him in. “I am just writing home to say that I want my curate to change places with me here, which I know he will be glad enough to do. I see Connie had better go home.” “You will all go, then, I presume?” returned Percivale. “Yes, yes; of course.” “Then I need not so much regret that I can stay no longer. I came to tell you that I must leave to-morrow.” “Ah! Going to London?” “Yes. I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness. You have made my summer something like a summer; very different, indeed, from what it would otherwise have been.” “We have had our share of advantage, and that a large one. We are all glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Percivale.” He made no answer. “We shall be passing through London within a week or ten days in all probability. Perhaps you will allow us the pleasure of looking at some of your pictures then?” His face flushed. What did the flush mean? It was not one of mere pleasure. There was confusion and perplexity in it. But he answered at once: “I will show you them with pleasure. I fear, however, you will not care for them.” Would this fear account for his embarrassment? I hardly thought it would; but I could not for a moment imagine, with his fine form and countenance before me, that he had any serious reason for shrinking from a visit. He began to search for a card. “O, I have your address. I shall be sure to pay you a visit. But you will dine with us to-day, of course?” I said. “I shall have much pleasure,” he answered; and took his leave. I finished my letter to Weir, and went out for a walk.