CHAPTER XIV.

THE TRYST.

Twas full of love—­to rhyme with dove,
And all that tender sort of thing,
Of sweet and meet—­and heart and dart,
But not a word about a ring! 
—­Hood.

Time flew much lighter with our heroine as she counted the days to the next rendezvous with Du Meresq; anticipation is ever sweeter than reality.  The cottage was no longer dull, nor existence empty, even the unrenewed and diminishing snow, dusky as a goose in a manufacturing town, was the symptoms of approaching spring and verdure.  Who need think of the torrents of rain which must precede it?  The little episode with Jack outside the door afforded her secret entertainment, and although she did not look upon it as a bona-fide proposal, that did not bias her intention of relating the anecdote for Bertie’s delectation.  It might be just as well to let him see if he couldn’t speak out, others could, and if he were jealous, why so much the better.

Clouds were chasing each other in the sky, and the increased mildness of the atmosphere inspired Bluebell with the dread that rain was approaching, for a rendezvous under dripping umbrellas, if feasible, was not the most desirable pose for a romantic interview.

However, the morning rose clear and sunny, the snow was thawing, and in many places the runners of the sleighs grated on bare ground.

Bluebell was exultant.  The elements evidently didn’t mean to oppose her, but she was somewhat disconcerted at dinner by Miss Opie’s remarks on her Sunday dress, which, being of a becoming hue, she had rashly donned.

“Are you going visiting, Bluebell, that you are so smart?”

“Oh, dear no; only for a walk.”

“How foolish to draggle that mazarin blue poplinette in sloppy snow!  Once let it get any snow stains on, and it will look quite shabby on bright spring days.”

“It’s no use having things, if one doesn’t wear them,” returned the girl, evasively.  But when she came down ten minutes later equipped for her walk, she encountered Miss Opie again in full marching order.

“My, dear, as you are dressed so nicely, I dare say you are going ’on King,’ and so am I; so we can walk together.”

Consternation in Bluebell’s face—­it was only a quarter to three.

“I am going quite in the opposite direction,” cried she, hurriedly, and, without waiting to see the effect of her words, abruptly fled.

“Just Canadian independence,” muttered Miss Opie; “It makes all the girls such thoroughly bad style.”

Bluebell began to feel very nervous; two or three young friends that she met on the way, she passed with a quick nod and averted face, dreading their joining her.  Her eye swept the broad walk of the Avenue in an instant; no familiar figure arrested her vision, and the seats placed at regular intervals on each side were also vacant of interest.