him they could know nothing yet of Richard's danger.     

       On his abrupt and unexpected apparition, Diana paled and Ruth flushed slightly, whereupon Sir Rowland might have bethought him, had he been book-learned, of the axiom, “Amour qui rougit, fleurette; amour qui plit, drame du coeur.”      

       He doffed his hat and bowed, his fair ringlets tumbling forward till they hid his face, which was exceeding grave.     

       Ruth gave him good morning pleasantly. “You London folk are earlier risers than we are led to think,” she added.     

       “'Twill be the change of air makes Sir Rowland matutinal,” said Diana, making a gallant recovery from her agitation.     

       “I vow,” said he, “that I had grown matutinal earlier had I known what here awaited me.”      

       “Awaited you?” quoth Diana, and tossed her head archly disdainful. “La! Sir Rowland, your modesty will be the death of you.” Archness became this lady of the sunny hair, tip-tilted nose, and complexion that outvied the apple-blossoms. She was shorter by a half-head than her darker cousin, and made up in sprightliness what she lacked of Ruth's gentle dignity. The pair were foils, each setting off the graces of the other.     

       “I protest I am foolish,” answered Blake, a shade discomfited. “But I want not for excuse. I have it in the matter that brings me here.” So solemn was his air, so sober his voice, that both girls felt a premonition of the untoward message that he bore. It was Ruth who asked him to explain himself.     

       “Will you walk, ladies?” said Blake, and waved the hand that still held       his hat riverwards, adown the sloping lawn. They moved away together, Sir Rowland pacing between his love of yesterday and his love of to-day, pressed with questions from both. He shaded his eyes to look at the river, dazzling in the morning sunlight that came over Polden Hill, and, standing thus, he unburdened himself at last.     

       “My news concerns Richard and—Mr. Wilding.” They looked at him. Miss Westmacott's fine level brows were knit. He paused to ask, as if suddenly observing his absence, “Is Richard not yet risen?”      

       “Not yet,” said 

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