Mr. Bury saw her depart silently, standing in a submissive, dejected attitude, but with a quiet, supercilious smile lightly curling his finely-cut lips; for did he not know that she would return to her haunt the next day, and that he would be there to see?

And Zelma did return the next day,—­persuading herself that she was only acting naturally, and with proper dignity and independence.  She argued with herself that to abandon her favorite walk or avoid her usual resting-place would be to confess, if not a fear of the stranger’s presuming and persistent suit, at least, a disturbing consciousness of his proximity, and of the possibility of his braving her displeasure by a second and unpardonable intrusion.  No, she would live as she had lived, freely, carelessly; she would go and come, ride and walk, just as though nothing had happened,—­for, indeed, nothing had happened that a woman of sense and pride should take cognizance of.  So, after a half-hour’s strange hesitation, she took her book and went to the old place.  Longer than usual she sat there, idly and abstractedly turning over the leaves of her Shakspeare, starting and flushing with every chance sound that broke on the still, sweet air; yet no presumptuous intruder disturbed her maiden meditations, and she rose wearily at last, and walked slowly homeward, saying to herself, “It is well.  I have conquered,” but feeling that nothing was well in life, or her own heart, and that she was miserably defeated.  Ah, little did she suspect that her clouded, dissatisfied face had been keenly scanned by the very eyes she dreaded, yet secretly longed to meet,—­that her most unconscious sigh of disappointment had been heard by her Romeo of the previous day, now lying just behind the hedge, buried in the long brook-side grass, and laughing to himself a very pleasant laugh of gratulation and triumph.

That night, the good Squire of Burleigh Grange relented from his virtuous resolve, and took his wife, daughter, and niece to the play.

The piece was Howe’s tragedy of “Tamerlane.”  Mr. Bury personated the imperial Tartar, a noble role, which so well became him, costumes and all, and brought him so much applause, that Zelma’s heart was effectually softened, and she even felt a regretful pride in having received and rejected the homage of a man of such parts.

The next day, as the hour for her stroll arrived, she said to herself, “I can surely take my walks in safety now,—­he will never come near me more.”  So she went,—­but, to her unspeakable confusion, she found him, quietly seated in her little rustic bower, his head bared to the sunshine, and his “Hyperion curls” tossed and tumbled about by a frolicsome wind.  He rose when the lady appeared, stammered out an apology, bowed respectfully, and would have retired, but that Zelma, feeling that she was the intruder this time, begged him to remain.  She thought herself, simple child! merely courteous and duly hospitable, in giving this invitation; but the quick, eager ear of the actor and lover heard, quivering through the assumed indifference and cold politeness of her tones, the genuine impulse and ardent wish of her heart.  So he yielded and lingered, proffering apologies and exchanging polite commonplaces.