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THE delicious spring days that followed Mrs. Damon’s reception were very far from being wholly delightful to Alice. There was a wrong note in all the spring harmony, a vague sense of trouble even in the bee-haunted daffodils. She hardly asked herself what was wrong, and she avoided the little social meetings of the neighbours where her bright friendliness had usually been so welcome. There was nothing in the few words that Mr. Austin had addressed to her that evening to spoil her peaceful enjoyment of nature; but she carried about a painful impression of confusion and misunderstanding. Perhaps it was not so much his warning—if warning were really meant—that gave her this presentiment of trouble; but Alice had suddenly felt that her eyes were opened to something wrong, something dangerous—she hardly knew what it was, or where the cloud rose in the blue sky. There was trouble—worse,