She hastily hid herself, in the lowest corner of the garden close to the river.  A large dead tree, thickly robed in ivy, had been considerably depressed by its icy load of the morning, and hung low over the stream, which here ran slow and deep.  The tree screened her from the eyes of any passer on the other side.

She waited timidly, and her timidity increased.  She would not allow herself to see him—­she would hear him pass, and then look to see if it had been Edward.

But, before she heard anything, she became aware of an object reflected in the water from under the tree which hung over the river in such a way that, though hiding the actual path, and objects upon it, it permitted their reflected images to pass beneath its boughs.  The reflected form was that of the man she had seen further off, but being inverted, she could not definitely characterize him.

He was looking at the upper windows of the House—­at hers—­was it Edward, indeed?  If so, he was probably thinking he would like to say one parting word.  He came closer, gazed into the stream, and walked very slowly.  She was almost certain that it was Edward.  She kept more safely hidden.  Conscience told her that she ought not to see him.  But she suddenly asked herself a question:  ’Can it be possible that he sees my reflected image, as I see his?  Of course he does!’

He was looking at her in the water.

She could not help herself now.  She stepped forward just as he emerged from the other side of the tree and appeared erect before her.  It was Edward Springrove—­till the inverted vision met his eye, dreaming no more of seeing his Cytherea there than of seeing the dead themselves.

‘Cytherea!’

‘Mr. Springrove,’ she returned, in a low voice, across the stream.

He was the first to speak again.

’Since we have met, I want to tell you something, before we become quite as strangers to each other.’

‘No—­not now—­I did not mean to speak—­it is not right, Edward.’  She spoke hurriedly and turned away from him, beating the air with her hand.

‘Not one common word of explanation?’ he implored.  ’Don’t think I am bad enough to try to lead you astray.  Well, go—­it is better.’

Their eyes met again.  She was nearly choked.  O, how she longed —­and dreaded—­to hear his explanation!

‘What is it?’ she said desperately.

’It is that I did not come to the church this morning in order to distress you:  I did not, Cytherea.  It was to try to speak to you before you were—­married.’

He stepped closer, and went on, ’You know what has taken place?  Surely you do?—­my cousin is married, and I am free.’

‘Married—­and not to you?’ Cytherea faltered, in a weak whisper.

’Yes, she was married yesterday!  A rich man had appeared, and she jilted me.  She said she never would have jilted a stranger, but that by jilting me, she only exercised the right everybody has of snubbing their own relations.  But that’s nothing now.  I came to you to ask once more if. . . .  But I was too late.’