I have even tried sometimes--I confess it--to catch a glance from you as
you came out. But I am not sorry, for now--"

"Hope! Hope!" called the voice from the garden.

Hope looked dreamily in that direction, not as if she heard it, but as if
she were listening to something in her mind.

"Now I meet you here on this lovely lawn in your own beautiful home. Do
you know that your grandfather permits me to sketch the place?"

"Do you draw, Mr. Newt?" asked Hope Wayne, in a tone which seemed to Abel
to trickle along his nerves, so exquisite and prolonged was the pleasure
it gave him to hear her call him by name. How did she know it? thought
he.

"Yes, I draw, and am very fond of it," he answered, as he untied his
port-folio. "I do not dare to say that I am proud of my drawing--and
yet you may perhaps recognize this, if you will look a moment."

"Hope! Hope!" came the voice again from the garden. Abel heard
it--perhaps Hope did not. He was busily opening his port-folio and
turning over the drawings, and stepped closer to her, as he said:

"There! now, what is that?" and he handed her a sketch.

Hope looked at it and smiled.

"That is the farther shore of the pond with the spire; how very pretty it
is!"