I was surprised and delighted at the magnificence of the grounds.  I had never dreamed that Dutton manor-house was so extensive or so beautiful.

“The great artist, Lilias, is coming here next week,” said Lance.  “I want him to paint my wife’s portrait.  She will make a superb picture, and when completed, that picture shall have the place of honor here in the drawing-room.  You will enjoy meeting him; he is a most intelligent, amiable man.”

That good Lance; it seemed to me quite impossible that he could speak even these words without bringing in Frances; but how bright and happy he looked!  I envied him.

“Do as I have done, John,” he said “Marry.  Believe me, no man knows what happiness means until he does marry.”

“You must find me a wife just like your own,” I said, and the words came back to me afterward with a fervent prayer of “Heaven forbid!—­may Heaven forbid!”

“I shall never marry now, Lance,” I said.  “The only woman I could ever love is dead to me.”

He looked at me very earnestly.

“I wish you would forget all about her, John.  She was not worthy of you.”

“Perhaps not,” I replied; “but that does not interfere with the love.”

“Why should you give all that loving heart of yours to one woman, John?” he said.  “If one fails, try another.”

“If your Frances died, should you love another woman?” I asked.

“That is quite another thing,” he said, and I saw in his heart he resented the fact that I should place the woman who had been faithless to me on an equality with his wife.  Poor Lance!

CHAPTER VI.

As we drew near the house on our return, the first dinner-bell was ringing.

“We have twenty minutes yet,” said Lance; “you will just have time to say a few words to Frances; she is sure to be in the drawing-room.”

We went there.  When the door was opened I saw a magnificent room—­long, lofty and bright, so cheerful and light—­with such beautiful furniture, and such superb hangings of white and gold.  I was struck as I had never been by any room before.  The long French windows, opening like glass doors, looked over a superb flower-garden, where flowers of every hue were now in blossom.

The room was full of sunlight; it faced the west, and the sun was setting.  For a few moments my eyes were dazzled; then as the golden haze cleared, I saw a tall figure at the other end of the room, a beautiful figure, dressed in a long robe of blue, with a crown of golden brown hair; when she turned suddenly to us, I saw that she carried some sprays of white hawthorn in her hand.  At first my attention was concentrated on the golden hair, the blue dress, the white flowers; then slowly, as though following some irresistible magnetic attraction, my eyes were raised to her face, and remained fixed there.  I have wondered a thousand times since how it was