than ever.' She laughed uneasily, ashamed of her years. Yet time had not touched him; he was just the same handsome youth she had known long ago, the same lad who had courted her under the trees in a London park, the lover who had left her without a word to wonder at his going, when he must have known she loved him. It was strange that time had not touched him! It was strange he could call her beautiful at her age. It was strange she should meet him of all people, and yet—no, nothing of this was strange. This was as it should be, for them to be together, the sun kissing their olive cheeks, dancing in their black eyes, blessing their brown curly hair. It was as it should be, that they were together with the day at morning, the free earth at their feet, and they young! Oh! it was true. She looked at herself in the calm waters of a little pool, a gipsy face smiled back and nodded dark curls in the affirmative. But what was strange was to think of that far-off country, where John and James were wondering at her absence. What was strange was to think of herself as with them, middle-aged, dull, going a weary round day after day, in joy, in pain, in deadly monotony, till she
