did in such a state of desperate heaviness. When Springrove was out
of sight she turned back, and arrived at the corner just in time to
see him sit down. Then she glided pensively along the pavement
behind him, forgetting herself to marble like Melancholy herself as
she mused in his neighbourhood unseen. She heard, without heeding,
the notes of pianos and singing voices from the fashionable houses
at her back, from the open windows of which the lamp-light streamed
to join that of the orange-hued full moon, newly risen over the Bay
in front. Then Edward began to pace up and down, and Cytherea,
fearing that he would notice her, hastened homeward, flinging him a
last look as she passed out of sight. No promise from him to write:
no request that she herself would do so--nothing but an indefinite
expression of hope in the face of some fear unknown to her. Alas,
alas!

When Owen returned he found she was not in the small sitting-room,
and creeping upstairs into her bedroom with a light, he discovered
her there lying asleep upon the coverlet of the bed, still with her
hat and jacket on. She had flung herself down on entering, and
succumbed to the unwonted oppressiveness that ever attends
full-blown love. The wet traces of tears were yet visible upon her
long drooping lashes.

'Love is a sowre delight, and sugred griefe,
A living death, and ever-dying life.'

'Cytherea,' he whispered, kissing her. She awoke with a start, and
vented an exclamation before recovering her judgment. 'He's gone!'
she said.