which the very struggles were repose compared with the daily tumult of the present. She prepared herself for the boat, and at half-past ten sat waiting in the drawing-room.

The ring at the door-bell was punctual, and she was thinking with half-sad, affectionate pleasure of the surprise Philip would have in finding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished a firm rapid step across the hall, that was certainly not Philip's: the door opened and Stephen Guest entered.

In the first moment they were both too much agitated to speak; for Stephen had learned from the servant that the others were gone out. Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beating violently, and Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and sat by her in silence. She thought Philip would be coming soon; and with great effort - for she trembled visibly - she rose to go to a distant chair.

`He is not coming,' said Stephen, in a low tone, `I am going in the boat.'

`O, we can't go,' said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. `Lucy did not expect - she would be hurt. Why is not Philip come?'

`He is not well - he asked me to come instead.'

`Lucy is gone to Lindum,' said Maggie, taking off her bonnet, with hurried, trembling fingers. `We must not go.'

`Very well,' said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested his arm on the back of his chair. `Then we'll stay here.'

He was looking into her deep, deep eyes - far-off and mysterious as the starlit blackness, and yet very near, and timidly loving. Maggie sat perfectly still - perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes - until the helpless trembling had ceased, and there was a warm glow on her cheek.

`The man is waiting - he has taken the cushions,' she said. `Will you go and tell him?'

`What shall I tell him?' said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He was looking at the lips now.

Maggie made no answer.

`Let us go,' Stephen murmured, entreatingly, rising, and taking her hand to raise her too. `We shall not be long together.'

And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the garden among the roses, being helped with firm tender care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasol opened for her (which she had forgotten) - all by this stronger presence that seemed to bear her along without any act of her own will, like the added self which comes with the sudden exalting influence of a strong tonic - and she felt nothing else. Memory was excluded.

They glided rapidly along, to Stephen's rowing, helped by the backward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses - on between the silent, sunny fields and pastures which seemed filled with a natural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip of the oars, the fragmentary song of a passing bird heard now and then as if it were only the overflowing of brim-full gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofold consciousness that was mingled into one by that grave untiring gaze which need not be averted - what else could there be in their minds for the first hour? Some low, subdued, languid exclamation of love came from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, half automatically: otherwise, they spoke no word; for what could words have been, but an inlet to thought? and thought did not belong to that enchanted haze in which they were enveloped - it belonged to the past and the future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly conscious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with no recognition on the villages: she knew there were