She remembered that they had all been plucked by him, and she laughed low as she kissed them one by one. Then she threw them up so that they fell over her head and shoulders in a soft shower; and she sang again a song, not of words, but breathing forth inexpressible delight--a song that at times almost trembled into sobs with the very fullness of that delight. She formed a beautiful picture indeed, as of a half-crazed Ophelia; but there was no occasional touch of sadness in _her_ mood, for she knew that her love was true to her and kind, and the shadow was so far away now--away--away--beyond the glorious woods and gardens, below the faint horizon, sunk under the world--and gone for ever, it seemed to her imagination--there would be no more shadow now. * * * * * But two fierce eyes were watching her unseen. Someone had approached noiselessly as a snake, and stood motionless a little way off, looking at the girl with a fixed and intent stare through the dense bushes. The intruder was a woman with pale face and deep-sunk, flashing eyes, and with lips lined at the corners as with much anguish. She stood there concealed by the foliage, her fists clenched, her body leaning forward, rigid, as of a tigress ready to spring on its prey. The happy girl sang on and played with the flowers unconscious of the danger near her. The woman was Catherine King. She had come down as she had promised, to carry out the mandate of the Secret Society, with a Judas kiss to invite Mary to her destruction. On reaching Mrs. White's cottage that morning, she was informed by the maid that all the family were away, that they had gone to picnic in the woods. "They will be back early this evening, then?" asked Catherine. "Yes, ma'am." "Very well, I will wait for them," and she went into the little drawing-room. She waited there for about half-an-hour. She sat first on one chair, then on another; then paced up and down the room quickly. She looked out of the window; she took up book after book, only immediately to put it down again unread. She could not read just then--she could not think--she felt she could not even wait idle in that room any longer, or she would go mad. She was distracted by a feverish nervousness, which was ever intensifying. She felt that she must go to Mary at once and do what was required of her--she must do it at once, before it became altogether impossible for her--so she rang the bell. The maid entered the room. "How far off is this picnic?" asked Catherine, curtly. "About four miles I think, ma'am." "Can you tell me the way there?" "Yes, ma'am. You will have to walk along the road across the moor until you come to the bridge. If you cross the bridge, ma'am, and turn to the right, following the river, you will come to them." "You are the only girl I ever met who could direct one clearly; thank you, I will go there."