The luncheon-bell rang.  The guests all took the direction of the dining -room; Sir Patrick following, from the far end of the library, with Blanche on his arm.  Arrived at the dining-room door, Blanche stopped, and asked her uncle to excuse her if she left him to go in by himself.

“I will be back directly,” she said.  “I have forgotten something up stairs.”

Sir Patrick went in.  The dining-room door closed; and Blanche returned alone to the library.  Now on one pretense, and now on another, she had, for three days past, faithfully fulfilled the engagement she had made at Craig Fernie to wait ten minutes after luncheon-time in the library, on the chance of seeing Anne.  On this, the fourth occasion, the faithful girl sat down alone in the great room, and waited with her eyes fixed on the lawn outside.

Five minutes passed, and nothing living appeared but the birds hopping about the grass.

In less than a minute more Blanche’s quick ear caught the faint sound of a woman’s dress brushing over the lawn.  She ran to the nearest window, looked out, and clapped her hands with a cry of delight.  There was the well-known figure, rapidly approaching her!  Anne was true to their friendship—­Anne had kept her engagement at last!

Blanche hurried out, and drew her into the library in triumph.  “This makes amends, love for every thing!  You answer my letter in the best of all ways—­you bring me your own dear self.”

She placed Anne in a chair, and, lifting her veil, saw her plainly in the brilliant mid-day light.

The change in the whole woman was nothing less than dreadful to the loving eyes that rested on her.  She looked years older than her real age.  There was a dull calm in her face, a stagnant, stupefied submission to any thing, pitiable to see.  Three days and nights of solitude and grief, three days and nights of unresting and unpartaken suspense, had crushed that sensitive nature, had frozen that warm heart.  The animating spirit was gone—­the mere shell of the woman lived and moved, a mockery of her former self.

“Oh, Anne!  Anne!  What can have happened to you?  Are you frightened?  There’s not the least fear of any body disturbing us.  They are all at luncheon, and the servants are at dinner.  We have the room entirely to ourselves.  My darling! you look so faint and strange!  Let me get you something.”

Anne drew Blanche’s head down and kissed her.  It was done in a dull, slow way—­without a word, without a tear, without a sigh.

“You’re tired—­I’m sure you’re tired.  Have you walked here?  You sha’n’t go back on foot; I’ll take care of that!”

Anne roused herself at those words.  She spoke for the first time.  The tone was lower than was natural to her; sadder than was natural to her—­but the charm of her voice, the native gentleness and beauty of it, seemed to have survived the wreck of all besides.

“I don’t go back, Blanche.  I have left the inn.”