It was a brisk October morning, the sportsman’s gun and whistle re-echoing from the hill sides; where here and there appeared the dogs careering along over green turnip-fields or across amber stubble.  The Little Northwold trees, in dark, sober tints of brown and purple, hung over the grey wall, tinted by hoary lichen; and as Louis entered the Ormersfield field paths, and plunged into his own Ferny dell, the long grass and brackens hung over the path, weighed down with silvery dew, and the large cavernous web of the autumnal spider was all one thick flake of wet.

If he could not enter the ravine without thankfulness for his past escape, neither could he forget gratitude to her who had come to his relief from hopeless agony!  He quickened his pace, in the earnest longing for tidings, which had seized him, even to heart sickness.

It was the reaction of the ardour and excitement that had so long possessed him.  The victory had been gained—­he had been obliged to leave James to work in his own cause, and would be no longer wanted in the same manner by his cousin.  The sense of loneliness, and of the want of an object, came strongly upon him as he walked through the prim old solitary garden, and looked up at the dreary windows of the house, almost reluctant to enter, as long as it was without Mary’s own serene atmosphere of sympathy and good sense, her precious offices of love, her clear steady eyes, even in babyhood his trustworthy counsellors.

Was it a delusion of fancy, acting on reflections in the glass, that, as he mounted the steps from the lawn, depicted Mary’s figure through the dining-room windows?  Nay, the table was really laid for breakfast—­a female figure was actually standing over the tea-chest.

‘A scene from the Vicar of Wakefield deluding me,’ decided Louis, advancing to the third window, which was open.

It was Mary Ponsonby.

‘Mary!’

‘You here?—­They said you were not at home!’

‘My father!—­Where?’

’He is not come down.  He is as well as possible.  We came at eleven last night.  I found I was not wanted,’ added Mary, with a degree of agitation, that made him conclude that she had lost her father.

One step he made to find the Earl, but too much excited to move away or to atand still, he came towards her, wrung her hand in a more real way than in his first bewildered surprise, and exclaimed in transport, ‘O Mary!  Mary! to have you back again!’ then, remembering his inference, added, low and gravely, ’It makes me selfish—­I was not thinking of your grief.’

‘Never mind,’ said Mary, smiling, though her eyes overflowed, ’I must be glad to be at home again, and such a welcome as this—­’

‘O Mary, Mary!’ he cried, nearly beside himself, ’I have not known what to do without you!  You will believe it now, won’t you?’—­oh, won’t you?’

Mary would have been a wonderful person had she not instantly and utterly forgotten all her conclusions from Frampton’s having declared him gone to Beauchastel for an unlimited time; but all she did was to turn away her crimson tearful face, and reply, ’Your father would not wish it now.’