He was too much absorbed in his reflections to notice a footstep on the grass beside him, and the rustle of a woman's dress. Some one had drawn near, and was looking pityingly, wonderingly, down upon the slight, boyish form that still shook and quivered with irrepressible emotion. A woman's voice sounded in his ear. "Hugo!" it said; "Hugo, what is the matter?" With a start he lifted his head, showed a flushed, tear-swollen countenance for one moment, and then hid it once more in his hands. "Oh, Angela, Angela!" he cried; and then the hysterical passion mastered him once more. He could not speak for sobs. She knelt down beside him and placed one hand soothingly upon his ruffled, black locks. For a few minutes she also did not speak. She knew that he could not hear. The world was not wrong when it called Angela Vivian a beautiful woman, although superfine critics objected that her features were not perfect, and that her hair, her eyes, her complexion, were all too colourless for beauty. But her great charm lay in the harmonious character of her appearance. To deepen the tint of that soft, pale hair--almost ash-coloured, with a touch of gold in the heavy coils--to redden her beautifully-shaped mouth, and her narrow, oval face, to imagine those sweet, calm, grey eyes of any more definite shade would have been to make her no longer the Angela Vivian that so many people knew and loved. But if fault were found with her face, no exception could be taken to her figure and the grace with which she moved. There, at least, she was perfect. Angela Vivian was twenty-three, and still unmarried. It was said that she had been difficult to please. But her choice was made at last. She was to be married to Richard Luttrell before the end of the year. They had been playmates in childhood, and their parents had been old friends. Angela was now visiting Mrs. Luttrell, who was proud of her son's choice, and made much of her as a guest at Netherglen. She spoke to Hugo as a sister might have done. "What is it, dear?" she asked him, smoothing out his short, dark curls, as she spoke. "Can't you tell me? Is it some great trouble?" For answer he dragged himself a little closer to her, and bowed his hot forehead on one of her hands, which she was resting on the ground, while she stroked his hair with the other. The action touched her; she did not know why. His sobs were quietening. He was by no means very manly, as English people understand manliness, but even he was ashamed to be found crying like a baby over his woes. "Dear Hugo, can you not tell me what is wrong?" said Angela, more seriously alarmed by his silence than by his tears. She had a right to question him, for he had previously given her as much of his confidence as he ever gave to anybody, and she had been a very good friend to him. "Are you in some great trouble?" "Yes," he said, in a voice so choked that she could hardly hear the word.