Did not that form, that movement as she walked, stir memories?  Yes, he had known someone who might well have paced thus beneath spreading trees, with her eyes upon a book of poetry; not unlike this stranger, outwardly.  In what black, skyless, leafless town was she pursuing her lonely life?—­Lonely? why should it be so?  Emily could not go on her way without meeting one whom her sweetness and her power would enthral, and the reasons, whatever they were, that had forbidden her marriage six or seven years ago, were not likely to resist time.  He tried to hope that the happier lot had by this solaced her.  Do we not change so?  His own love—­see how it had faded!

Half purposely, he had turned so as to pass near the reader.  At the distance of a few yards from her, he stayed his step.  A little nearer she came, then something made her aware of his presence.  She raised her eyes, the eyes of Emily Hood.

Her hands fell, one still holding the book open.  He, who was prepared already, could watch her countenance change from placid, if grave, thought, to the awakening of surprise, to startled recognition; he could see the colour die upon her cheeks, flee from her lips; he could observe the great heartthrobs which shook her and left her bosom quivering.  He did not uncover his head; conventional courtesies have their season.  It seemed very long before they ceased to look into each other’s eyes, but at length hers fell.

‘Is it possible that you are living in London?’ were Wilfrid’s first words.  He could affect no distance of manner.  To him all at once it was as though they had parted a few days ago.

‘Yes,’ she answered simply.  ‘In a far part of London.’

’And we meet here, where I seemed to find myself by the merest chance.  I saw a stranger in the distance, and thought of yourself; I knew you long before you looked up from your reading.’

Emily tried to smile.

‘How little you are changed!’ Wilfrid continued, his voice keeping still its awed quietness, with under-notes of feeling.  ’Rather, you are not changed at all.’

It was not true, but in the few minutes that he had gazed at her, past and present had so blended that he could not see what another would have noticed.  Emily was appreciably older, and ill-health had set marks upon her face.  A stranger looking at her now would have found it hard to imagine her with the light of joy in her eyes; her features had set themselves in sorrow.  Her cheeks were very thin; her eyes were dark and sunken.  Wilfrid saw only the soul in her gaze at him, and that was as it had ever been.

She was unable to speak; Wilfrid found words.

‘Do you often walk here?  Is your home near?’

‘Not very near.  I came by the river,’ she answered.

‘I am very glad that I have met you.’  The words sounded insufficient, but Wilfrid was by this time at battle with himself, and succeeded in saying less than he felt.  ’You will let me walk on a little way with you?  We can’t shake hands at once and say good-bye, can we, after such a long time?’