By and by the time came to go, and eager, yet fearful, he went.  It was a fresh, beautiful day in early June; and when the city, with its heat, and dust, and noise, was left behind, and all the leafy greenness—­the soothing quiet of country sights and country sounds—­met his ear and eye, a curious peace took possession of his soul.  It was less the whisper of hope than the calm of assured reality.  For the moment, unreasonable as it seemed, something made him blissfully sure of her love, spite of the rebuffs and coldness she had compelled him to endure.

“This is the place, sir!” suddenly called his driver, stopping the horses in front of a stately avenue of trees, and jumping down to open the gates.

“You need not drive in; you may wait here.”

This, then, was her home.  He took in the exquisite beauty of the place with a keen pleasure.  It was right that all things sweet and fine should be about her; he had before known that they were, but it delighted him to see them with his own eyes.  Walking slowly towards the house,—­slowly, for he was both impelled and retarded by the conflicting feelings that mastered him,—­he heard her voice at a little distance, singing; and directly she came out of a by-path, and faced him.  He need not have feared the meeting; at least, any display of emotion; she gave no opportunity for any such thing.

A frankly extended hand,—­an easy “Good afternoon, Mr. Surrey!” That was all.  It was a cool, beautiful room into which she ushered him; a room filled with an atmosphere of peace, but which was anything but peaceful to him.  He was restless, nervous; eager and excited, or absent and still.  He determined to master his emotion, and give no outward sign of the tempest raging within.

At the instant of this conclusion his eye was caught by an exquisite portrait miniature upon an easel near him.  Bending over it, taking it into his hands, his eyes went to and fro from the pictured face to the human one, tracing the likeness in each.  Marking his interest, Francesca said, “It is my mother.”

“If the eyes were dark, this would be your veritable image.”

“Or, if mine were blue, I should be a portrait of mamma, which would be better.”

“Better?”

“Yes.”  She was looking at the picture with weary eyes, which he could not see.  “I had rather be the shadow of her than the reality of myself:  an absurd fancy!” she added, with a smile, suddenly remembering herself.

“I would it were true!” he exclaimed.

She looked a surprised inquiry.  His thought was, “for then I should steal you, and wear you always on my heart.”  But of course he could speak no such lover’s nonsense; so he said, “Because of the fitness of things; you wished to be a shadow, which is immaterial, and hence of the substance of angels.”