his side the man whose coming she has so long anticipated. Once sure that he is there, her interest in the carriage ceases; she buries her face in her hands, and for an instant contemplates mounting to a still loftier aerie at the very top of the great tree. The idea is dismissed as being childish: the old orchard always makes her feel herself a child again; and descending lightly from the tree, she stands beneath its shadow, afraid to go back to the house to meet him, and dreading lest he should fail to find her in the orchard. She hears a step on the path, a shadow falls across the heap of red-gold pumpkins on the other side of the wall, the gate swings open and shuts again, and some one stands beside her. She does not look up; she dares not lift her eyes to his face, lest she should find it changed.
"Won't you speak to me, Margaret?"
She is silent.
"Look at me, at least; I have come so far."
He is devouring her with his eyes, which find her bonnier than ever; but still she cannot look at him. It is as if her eyelids were weighed down with the burden of the happy tears which sparkle from under the long lashes.
"Atalanta, are you not glad that I have come to you? Shall I go?"
There is a shade of reproach in his voice. With an effort of will she lifts her eyes slowly
