them; and they had passed that age when they could have imagined it
possible that the man they had known almost as a boy was separated by
years from the lively feelings and extreme youth of Evelyn. They could
not believe that the sentiments he had inspired were colder than those
that animated himself.

One day, Maltravers had been absent for some hours on his solitary
rambles, and De Montaigne had not yet returned from Paris, which he
visited almost daily. It was so late in the noon as almost to border on
evening, when Maltravers; on his return, entered the grounds by a gate
that separated them from an extensive wood. He saw Evelyn, Teresa, and
two of her children walking on a terrace immediately before him. He
joined them; and, somehow or other, it soon chanced that Teresa and
himself loitered behind the rest, a little out of hearing. "Ah, Mr.
Maltravers," said the former, "we miss the soft skies of Italy and the
beautiful hues of Como."

"And, for my part, I miss the youth that gave 'glory to the grass and
splendour to the flower.'"

"Nay; we are happier now, believe me,--or at least I should be, if--But I
must not think of my poor brother. Ah, if his guilt deprived you of one
who was worthy of you, it would be some comfort to his sister to think at
last that the loss was repaired. And you still have scruples?"

"Who that loves truly has not? How young, how lovely, how worthy of
lighter hearts and fairer forms than mine! Give me back the years that
have passed since we last met at Como, and I might hope!"

"And this to me who have enjoyed such happiness with one older, when we