“No,” said Maggie, with simple seriousness, walking on as if she meant Philip to accompany her, “I’m very glad you came, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of speaking to you. I’ve never forgotten how good you were long ago to Tom, and me too; but I was not sure that you would remember us so well. Tom and I have had a great deal of trouble since then, and I think _that_ makes one think more of what happened before the trouble came.” “I can’t believe that you have thought of me so much as I have thought of you,” said Philip, timidly. “Do you know, when I was away, I made a picture of you as you looked that morning in the study when you said you would not forget me.” Philip drew a large miniature-case from his pocket, and opened it. Maggie saw her old self leaning on a table, with her black locks hanging down behind her ears, looking into space, with strange, dreamy eyes. It was a water-colour sketch, of real merit as a portrait. “Oh dear,” said Maggie, smiling, and flushed with pleasure, “what a queer little girl I was! I remember myself with my hair in that way, in that pink frock. I really _was_ like a gypsy. I dare say I am now,” she added, after a little pause; “am I like what you expected me to be?” The words might have been those of a coquette, but the full, bright glance Maggie turned on Philip was not that of a coquette. She really did hope he liked her face as it was now, but it was simply the rising again of her innate delight in admiration and love. Philip met her eyes and looked at her in silence for a long moment, before he said quietly, “No, Maggie.” The light died out a little from Maggie’s face, and there was a slight trembling of the lip. Her eyelids fell lower, but she did not turn away her head, and Philip continued to look at her. Then he said slowly: “You are very much more beautiful than I thought you would be.” “Am I?” said Maggie, the pleasure returning in a deeper flush. She turned her face away from him and took some steps, looking straight before her in silence, as if she were adjusting her consciousness to this new idea. Girls are so accustomed to think of dress as the main ground of vanity, that, in abstaining from the looking-glass, Maggie had thought more of abandoning all care for adornment than of renouncing the contemplation of her face. Comparing herself with elegant, wealthy young ladies, it had not occurred to her that she could produce any effect with her person. Philip seemed to like the silence well. He walked by her side, watching her face, as if that sight left no room for any other wish. They had passed from among the fir-trees, and had now come to a green hollow almost surrounded by an amphitheatre of the pale pink dog-roses. But as the light about them had brightened, Maggie’s face had lost its glow. She stood still when they were in the hollows, and looking at Philip again, she said in a serious, sad voice: