On Saturday morning there was sunshine over the hills.  Irene walked, and talked, but it was evident with thoughts elsewhere.  When they sat down to rest and to enjoy the landscape before them, the rich heart of England, with its names that echo in history and in song, Irene plucked at the grass beside her, and presently began to strip a stem, after the manner of children playing at a tell-fortune game.  She stripped it to the end; her hands fell and she heaved a little sigh.  From that moment she grew merry and talked without pre-occupation.

After lunch she wrote a short letter, and herself took it to the post.  Mrs. Hannaford was lying on the sofa, with eyes closed, but not in sleep; her forehead and lips betraying the restless thoughts which beset her now as always.  On returning, Irene took a chair, as if to read; but she gave only an absent glance at the paper in her hands, and smiled to herself in musing.

“I’m sure those thoughts are worth far more than a penny,” fell from the lady on the couch, who had observed her for a moment.

“I may as well tell you them,” was the gently toned reply, as Irene bent forward.  “I have just done something decisive.”

Mrs. Hannaford raised herself, a sudden anxiety in her features; she waited.

“You guess, aunt?  Yes, that’s it, I have written to Mr. Jacks.”

“To—­to——?”

“To answer an ultimatum.  In the right way, I hope; any way, it’s done.”

“You have accepted him?”

“Even so.”

Mrs. Hannaford tried to smile, but could not smooth away the uneasiness which had come into her look.  She spoke a few of the natural words, and in doing so looked at the clock.

“There is something I have forgotten,” she said, starting to her feet hurriedly.  “You reminded me of it—­speaking of a letter; I must send a telegram at once—­indeed I must.  No, no, I will go myself, dear.  I had rather!”

She hastened away. leaving Irene in wonder.

When they were together again, Mrs. Hannaford seemed anxious to atone for her brevity on the all-important subject.  She spoke with pleasure of her niece’s decision thought it wise; abounded in happy prophecy; through the rest of the day she had a face which spoke relief, all but contentment.  The morning of Sunday saw her nervous.  She made an excuse of the slightly clouded sky for lingering within doors; she went often to the window and looked this way and that along the road, as if judging the weather, until Irene, when the church bells had ceased, grew impatient for the open air.

“Yes, we will go,” said her aunt.  “I think we safely may.”

Each went to her room to make ready.  At Mrs. Hannaford’s door, just as she was about to come forth, there sounded a knock; the servant announced that a gentleman had called to see her—­Mr. Otway.  Quivering, death-pale, she ran to the sitting-room.  Irene had not yet reappeared.  Piers Otway stood there alone.