Yet the little group had not been altogether lost on Hugh Macneillie in spite of the unseeing look in his eyes. He had carried away a curiously vivid impression of the two children, their black garments and their fresh young faces. He gave an impatient sigh, and paced on with quicker steps, yet turned again to walk by the side of the water, every now and then glancing at his watch with an air of vexation. He had been waiting there for a good hour, and he was in a mood which made waiting specially irksome. “I will give her till half past ten,” he thought to himself, and walked doggedly on, his face growing more and more haggard as the time passed by. At last the Westminster chimes rang out the half hour; he mechanically took out his watch again to verify the time, and setting his teeth hard turned to go. At that moment there suddenly appeared, walking towards him, a very beautiful woman. It was difficult to say precisely in what her great charm lay. Her every movement was full of grace, and although she was dressed with scrupulous quietness--indeed with a simplicity that was almost severe,--no one could have passed her by without a lingering glance. Her complexion was pale but very fair, her hair was like spun gold, contrasting curiously with the brown, deep-set eyes; and though the mouth was a little too wide and betrayed a not ever strong character, both face and manner were full of that indescribable fascination which carries all before it. Macneillie, though he met her in the company of other people every day of his life, though he had known her for at least ten years, went to meet her now with his heart throbbing painfully. She gave him a charming little greeting, and apologised prettily for being so unpunctual. “It is Elizabeth’s fault,” she said, glancing at the maid who accompanied her. “She allowed me to oversleep myself. You can wait for me on that bench Elizabeth, I shall not be long.” The maid walked back to the seat where Fraulein Ellerbeck sat with her knitting, and Macneillie, who had scarcely spoken a word as yet, broke the silence as they paced on together. “I had almost given you up,” he said, a world of repressed impatience in his tone. “That’s the wisest thing I ever heard you say, Hugh,” she replied lightly, though with a secret effort. “But you must go further. It must be not only almost, but altogether.” “Don’t let us talk in parables,” said Macneillie, passionately. “You can’t compare an hour’s waiting in a park with ten years waiting through the best part of a man’s life.” A look of pain flashed across her face: there was remorse and tenderness in her voice as she replied. But there was not the love he had once heard there, and he knew it well enough.