same time that she had given up tennis, and would never touch a racquet again.  Her continuous silence and dejected appearance created some surprise, and her cheeks flushed with passion when her mother said she didn’t know what had come over May lately.  Then obeying an impulse, May rose to her feet, and leaving the tennis players she walked across the pleasure grounds.  Dungory Castle was surrounded by heavy woods and overtopping clumps of trees.  As the house was neared, these were filled in with high laurel hedges and masses of rhododendron, and an opening in the branches of some large beech-trees revealed a blue and beautiful aspect of the Clare mountains.

‘I wonder what May is angry about?’ Cecilia said to Alice as they watched the tennis playing from their window; ’suppose those horrid men are annoying her.’

‘I never saw her refuse to play tennis before,’ Alice replied demurely.  And ten minutes after, some subtle desire of which she was not very conscious led her through the shrubberies towards the place where she already expected to find May.  And dreaming of reconciliation, of a renewal of friendship, Alice walked through the green summer of the leaves, listening to the infinite twittering of the birds, and startled by the wood-pigeons that from time to time rose boisterously out of the high branches.  On a garden bench, leaning forward, her hands rested on her knees, May sat swinging her parasol from side to side, playing with the fallen leaves.  When she looked up, the sunlight fell full upon her face, and Alice saw that she was crying.  But affecting not to see the tears, she said, speaking rapidly: 

‘Oh, May dear, I have been looking for you.  The last time we—­’

But interrupted here by a choking sob, she found herself forced to say: 

‘My dear May, what is the matter?  Can I do anything for you?’

’Oh, no, no; only leave me; don’t question me.  I don’t want anyone’s help.’

The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of grief with which they were spoken.

‘I assure you I don’t wish to be inquisitive,’ Alice replied sorrowfully, ’nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, but the last time we met we didn’t part good friends. . . .  I was merely anxious to assure you that I bore no ill-feeling, but, of course, if you—­’

‘Oh no, no,’ cried May; reaching and catching at Alice’s arm she pulled her down into the seat beside her; ’I am awfully sorry for my rudeness to you—­to you who are so good—­so good.  Oh, Alice dear, you will forgive me, will you not?’ and sobbing very helplessly, she threw herself into her friend’s arms.

‘Oh, of course I forgive you,’ cried Alice, deeply affected.  ’I had no right to lecture you in the way I did; but I meant it for the best, indeed I did.’

’I know you did, but I lost my temper.  Ah, if you knew how sorely I was tried you would forgive me.’

’I do forgive you, May dear; but tell me, cannot I help you now?  You know that you can confide in me, and I will do any thing in my power to help you.’