she appeared gayer for sight of him; but if the thought came, bitterly,
peremptorily it was dismissed. Sir Charles' words rang through his mind;
Lord Ronsdale!--John Steele's hat shaded his eyes; he stopped to pick a
small flower from the hedge. When he looked up he saw her face no
longer; only the golden hair seemed to flash in his eyes, the beautiful,
bright meshes, and the light, slender figure, so graceful, so buoyant,
so near he could almost touch it, but moving away, moving from him--

It may be, amid other thoughts, at that moment, he asked himself why he
had come. What had driven him to this folly? Why was he stepping on
blindly, oblivious of definite plan or policy, like a man walking in the
dark? No, not in the dark; all was too bright. He could see but too
plainly--her!--felt impelled to draw nearer--

But at that instant, she stepped quickly from the byway into the main
road. "There it is," she said, pointing with a small white finger.

He held himself abruptly back. "What?" fell from his lips.

"The way in, of course," said the girl.

He moved now at her side; at the entrance, broad, imposing, she paused;
a thousand perfumes seemed wafted from the garden; the rustling of
myriad wings fell on the senses, like faint cadences of music. The girl
made a courtesy; her red lips curved. "Welcome to Strathorn House, Mr.
John Steele!" she said gaily.

Within the stately house, near a recessed window at the front, a man
stood at that moment, reading a letter handed to him but a short time
before. This document, though brief, was absorbing: