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them both of the hour they had once spent together in the tropical garden in Ceylon. History repeats itself, even in our own little experiences, very often; it seemed almost as if they had been sitting there all these years under the spell of some enchanter—“the world forgetting, by the world forgot.”

But suddenly Alice remembered the letter, which had passed entirely from her thoughts during their ride. She took it out and handed it to him, saying rather hurriedly:

“Mrs. Austin came to see me, and asked me to give you this, and to say good-bye for her. She is going away—in fact, she must have sailed by this time. I saw her on Thursday last.”

“Yes, I know. I am awfully sorry. It quite knocked me off my perch, as our friend is so fond of saying, when I first heard of it. I shall miss her awfully. She was so good to me. I have been away up the country, you know, and hurried back hoping to see her. But she had already started.”

Alice made no reply, but sat with her eyes fixed on the ground, tracing out the pattern of some leaves on the gravel with her riding-whip. A great mulberry-tree shaded this end of the terrace, and its ripe berries lay on the ground