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cold daybreak. But Lizzie was a true child of nature, and was seldom out of harmony with the sylvan world. In her shining folds of white satin, a diamond crescent glittering in her hair, she might have been next of kin to the morning, which was already “in his cold crown and crystal silence creeping down” over the jagged purple hills.

Campbell was touched at last, and with a sudden impulse he threw his conventional defences overboard, and spoke frankly:

“Yes, I will tell you all I can. Ten years ago I met her on the voyage home” (Alice Lauder’s name was never mentioned between them—it was understood, which is a much more serious thing). “She was a solitary unfriended sort of girl, and we made friends over her music, but nothing more. She was quite mad about going on the stage then, and I tried all I could to dissuade her from it. At last I offered to marry her there and then———”

“Very noble, I am sure,” said Lizzie, with one of her sudden childish laughs.

“Well, she refused me, anyhow. Then I met her here. She had changed a good deal, and I don’t mind saying that I admired her very much.” He stopped as if he had forgotten what they were talking about; then with a sudden effort he