“Ever your affectionate,

“Maria Leslie.”

Graham arrived by the last available train on the evening of the 31st, and was told by Madge, who came running into the hall to meet him, that Mamma and Cousin Madelon were dressing, and would Uncle Horace have some dinner, or go and dress too?  Uncle Horace said he had dined already, and would dress at once, and so disappeared upstairs with his portmanteau.

When he came down to the drawing-room, he found Mrs. Treherne sitting alone in the summer twilight at the open window.

“Is that you, Horace?” she said, putting out her hand; “you are quite a stranger here, I understand.  Georgie says she has been jealous of my seeing so much of you in London.”

“I think Georgie has no right to complain of me,” he answered; “if there is a thing on earth I hate it’s a ball—­are you going, too, Aunt Barbara?”

“Indeed, no—­I think you will have enough to do with two ladies; here comes one of them.”

A tall, slender figure, moving through the dusk with her soft trailing draperies, and water-lilies in her brown hair.  Graham had not seen her since that evening, more than three months ago, when she had looked up at him, and escaped in the midst of her unfinished song.  They took each other’s hands in silence now; a sudden consciousness and embarrassment seemed to oppress them both, and make the utterance of a word impossible.

Madelon was the first to speak; she went up to Mrs. Treherne.

“Can you see my flowers, Aunt Barbara?” she said; “are they not pretty?  Madge walked three miles to-day to the sedge ponds, on purpose to get them for me.”

“Is Madge still your devoted friend?” Horace asked.

“Oh! yes, Madge and I are always great friends.  I must not expect all her attentions though, now that you are come back, Monsieur Horace.”

The old childish name seemed to break the spell, and to bring back the old familiarity.

“And so you are going to a ball at last, Madelon,” Graham said.  “For the first time in my life I am sorry I cannot dance, for I shall be deprived of the pleasure of having you for a partner.”

“Thank you,” she said, “I should have liked to have danced with you very much; but, after all, it is in the intention that is the greatest compliment, so I will not mind too much.  I think I will be very happy even if I do not dance at all.”

She looked up at him for the first time, and even in the dusk he seemed to see the light in her eyes, the smile on her lips, the colour flushing in her cheeks.  It was not of the ball she was thinking—­it was of him; she had felt the grasp of his kind hand, his voice was sounding in her hears, he has come back at last—­at last.

“You have been away a long time, Monsieur Horace,” she said softly, “but we have heard of you often; we have read your book, and the critiques upon it; it has been a great success, has it not?  And then we have seen your name in the papers—­at dinners, at scientific meetings——­”