“I am not well to-night, and shall not come down to tea.  Good night, Harold.  Smile upon me as you were wont to do,” she added, as she pressed his hand and raised her swollen eyes, beneath whose white lids were crushed two teardrops that were striving to burst forth.  “Give me the smile of the old time, and the old kiss, Harold,” and she raised her forehead to receive it.  “Do not look disturbed; I have but a headache, and shall be well to-morrow.  Good night—­dear—­Harold.”

She strove to look pleasantly as she left the room, but Harold was bewildered and anxious, and, till the summons came for supper, he paced the veranda with slow and meditative steps.

CHAPTER IX.

The following morning was warm and springlike, and Arthur was sufficiently strong and well to walk out a little in the open air.  He had been seated upon the veranda conversing with Beverly and Harold, when the latter proposed a stroll with Beverly, with whom he wished to converse in relation to his proposed marriage.  As the beams of the unclouded sun had already chased away the morning dew, and the air was warm and balmy, Arthur walked out into the garden and breathed the freshness of the atmosphere with the exhilaration of a convalescent freed for the first time from the sick-room.  Accidentally, or by instinct, he turned his steps to the little grove which he knew was Oriana’s favorite haunt; and there, indeed, she sat, upon the rustic bench, above which the drooping limbs of the willow formed a leafy canopy.  The pensive girl, her white hand, on which she leaned, buried among the raven tresses, was gazing fixedly into the depths of the clear sky, as if she sought to penetrate that azure veil, and find some hope realized among the mysteries of the space beyond.  The neglected volume had fallen from her lap, and lay among the bluebells at her feet.  Arthur’s feeble steps were unheard upon the sward, and he had taken his seat beside her, before, conscious of an intruder, she started from her dream.

“The first pilgrimage of my convalescence is to your bower, my gentle nurse.  I have come to thank you for more kindness than I can ever repay, except with grateful thoughts.”

She had risen when she became aware of his presence; and when she resumed her seat, it seemed with hesitation, and almost an effort, as if two impulses were struggling within her.  But her pleasure to see him abroad again was too hearty to be checked, and she timidly gave him the hand which his extended palm invited to a friendly grasp.

“Indeed, Mr. Wayne, I am very glad to see you so far recovered.”

“To your kind offices chiefly I owe it, and those of my good friends, your brother and Harold, and our excellent Miss Randolph.  My sick-room has been the test of so much friendship, that I could almost be sinful enough to regret the returning health which makes me no longer a dependent on your care.  But you are pale, Miss Weems.  Or is it that my eyes are unused to this broad daylight?  Indeed, I trust you are not ill?”