When she remembered all she had been thinking and dreaming, it was no wonder that the beautiful face grew crimson as a damask rose, and that the bright eyes fell until he could see nothing of them. She was spell-bound--this unknown hero of whom she had dreamed the whole summer morning was Adrian Darcy! He held out his hand to her. "We are old friends," he said frankly. "I saw this young lady about to drink some clear, cold, sparkling poison this morning, and I interfered to prevent her doing so." Then he was obliged to explain to Lady Vaughan who smiled most graciously; but Hyacinth said never a word. She could not realize the truth, yet she sat like one blinded by a great flood of sunlight. If she had known how this sweet shy confusion became her--how beautiful it was--how Adrian Darcy admired it! Nothing could have charmed him half so much. "How beautiful she is!" he thought. "She is like a rosebud shrouded in green leaves." Hyacinth was almost in despair. "How stupid he will think me!" she reflected. "But I cannot help it--I cannot speak." When she had collected her senses sufficiently to listen, Adrian was saying-- "Yes; we have very good music here, indeed. I think the hotel gardens on a bright summer day the most charming place I know. The fountains are very beautiful; and the band is one of the best I have heard. Lady Vaughan, I hear the music beginning now; will you allow me to escort you? There are very comfortable seats in the gardens!" He saw the sudden, startled flush of joy in the young face. Hyacinth raised her head and looked eagerly at her grandmamma; but Lady Vaughan excused herself. "The journey has been delightful," she said, "but fatiguing. To-morrow I will go out, but not to-day. Hyacinth will go, though, Adrian, if you will be so kind as to give the child the pleasure." The "child" rose, her cheeks aflame, her heart beating as it had never beat before. To go out into those sunlit gardens and to listen to music with him--well, she had not even guessed before what a beautiful, happy world it was. She put on the prettiest of her hats--one with a white plume--and a lace mantilla, and then stood, half smiling, but wholly happy, waiting for him. He came up to her smiling. "Hyacinth," he said, "we are--to use an old-fashioned term--of the same kin; so I am not going to call you Miss Vaughan. And I want you not to look so shy, but to feel quite at home with me." At home with him, this hero, this king amongst men, whose presence filled her whole soul with light! It could never be. "I had no idea," he continued, "that I had such a fair young kinswoman. Lady Vaughan had always written as though you were a child." Her heart sank. Was this how he thought of her--was this what made him so kind and gracious to her? "I am not a child," she said, with some little attempt at dignity, "I am more than eighteen."