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"From the way in which you have carried on, I should imagine a woman."

Roscoria looked up in admiration at his friend's sagacity.

"She came straight by me, walking softly and dreamily, looking aside at the blue hyacinths, and her hat was held in her hand, so that the sun shone on her wonderful hair till it scintillated like a shower of gold. She was tall, yes; but she had an air so ethereal, and in her white dress she showed so like a cloud, that I held my breath lest she should vanish. I thought, indeed, she was some mystic vision I had conjured up from Plato's pages—the Absolute Good she might have been—she was so fair, so spiritual, and the air was so still around us; and there were we alone in the summer silence."

"Did she speak?" inquired Tregurtha (for he was a sailor, and his friend's manner was impressive).

"When she saw me standing still before her she dropped her eyes and made for a gate leading into the wood. The fastening was troublesome, so I went and opened it for her. She turned as she passed through, and bent her head—with a queenliness, heavens!—and smiled and whispered a word of thanks. I saw her eyes then for an instant; they—but I ought not to speak of them, and, after all, I don't know what color they were. She walked a short distance whilst I was shutting the gate again, and I was not the man to spoil her solitude, so I went off very fast; but looking back just once—only once, Tregurtha—I saw her standing amongst those blue-bells, gathering them, whilst the sunbeams slanted through the pale green larch boughs on to that glinting, golden head. After all, what immense possibilities this world contains! I believe this—this vision to have been the daughter of a mortal man who was once a boy, probably also a schoolboy! But then there was a woman in the case."

"Thank you, old fellow," said Richard, consulting his watch: "this has been very instructive; just as good as 'Half-hours with the best Poets;' but I suppose we must all descend to commonplace. You must tone yourself down and come to supper."

"Supper!" gasped Roscoria, blankly.

"Supper," retorted Tregurtha, firmly. "You shall note that not all your boys are overcome by an affaire de cœur, and that if you keep them waiting much longer there will be a bread riot. Here is comfort for you. The Tremenheeres give a tennis party; hie you to it, and if this Oread of yours be mortal, she will surely there be found. It is a good way to distinguish women from angels: the former, if young, can scarcely resist a party."

IV.

THE WAY TO TAKE A PARTY.

In the interval between the evening mentioned and the day of the tennis-party, Roscoria was out early and late, whenever his calling permitted, roaming restlessly in the woods, haunting the sunny fields like a dark shadow, seeking for his goddess in the spot where he had seen her, and in every other romantic and flowery nook that he thought likely. Of course he never saw her. If he had been his own cook, the venerable Mrs. Tartlett, if he had been his youngest pupil, small Tom Rodda; if he had been the parish blacksmith, or cowboy, or even the parson—a paterfamilias—he would assuredly have seen her. But as he was her lover, and was searching for her high and low, he never caught so much as the glimmer of her fair white robe dim in the distance.

Consequently, Roscoria grew irritable, knowing the pangs of baffled will, but he did not lose his hope. He could have sworn that he should meet her again. So on the important day he got himself up in white flannels and pre-Raphaelite red cap, caught up his racket, and ran off. Half-way toward his destination he wisely slackened his pace, lest, meeting his charmer, he might be too much out of breath to speak to her. As he crossed a field not far from the hallowed locality where he had lost his heart, he stopped short and passed his hand across his eyes. Yes; surely she was no other! A tall form, walking in that dreamy, quiet, contented way that he had noticed before; in a white dress—the white dress—and there came the sunlight down on her golden hair as she passed from under the shade of that oak. She held as a screen a large horse-chestnut leaf, and she stooped often to gather or to scrutinize some wild flower. It was the same lady, and the charm was the same. Roscoria began by an impulsive start after her, then he stopped again, for what could he possibly say? He could not rush forward and exclaim, "Lady, you are the most adorable creature beneath the sun—what is your name?" for that would sound bizarre, not to say impertinent. As he was thus musing, however, a chance occurred in his favor; drawing out her kerchief the unconscious maiden let an envelope slip from out her pocket and fall noiselessly in the grass. She walked on unwitting, but Roscoria saw his opportunity, ran up and seized the letter. It was addressed to "Miss Lyndis Villiers."

In the first fervor of his satisfaction Roscoria imprinted a chaste salute upon the letters of her name; then, looking again at the handwriting, he observed, with a sharp revulsion of feeling, that it was rather manly in character. Perhaps he had kissed his rival's ink! With a shiver Roscoria proceeded to make the most of his time. He walked up after the lady, doffed his small cap, and said, "Excuse me—this is your letter, I think?" The lady gave a slight start, and received her property with a gratitude much tempered by the haughty surprise of the Englishwoman when addressed by a stranger. Then she blushed, for she recognized the handsome stranger. And then there seemed nothing more to be done, and Roscoria's wits were hampered by his admiration of her, so she bowed and went her way. This was well; but her way happened also to be Roscoria's, and he walked faster than she did; moreover, there was before them a stile, and beyond that stile the only lane, a narrow one, toward the Tremenheeres. He walked behind, like a footman, until the delay at the said stile obliged him to come up with the lady. Then, as he clomb the barrier and noted the narrowness of the lane below, a sense of the comic struck him hard, and he burst into a cheery, irrepressible laugh. Much pained he was with his own irreverence when he had done so, but Miss Villiers turned at the sound, and smilingly accosted him as she stood in the lane, looking upward:

"I fear I detain you; go on, you walk more quickly than I."

So brilliant an idea now flashed into Roscoria's brain that he saw blue sparks before his eyes for several minutes afterward.

"You have a racket to carry; as we are bound in the same direction, apparently, may I——?" Her lips parted for thanks, so Roscoria was over the stile with the dexterity of an acrobat, and next moment was walking by his goddess' side, her rackets in his hand, in the most blissful tremor.

"I ought to tell you my name to show you that I am respectable," he began. "I am Louis Roscoria, an instructor of youth, and owner of that curious, moldy building, Torres Hall."

"That beautiful, ivy-grown, moated mansion, with willows growing all round?"

"The same, if you call it beautiful."

"I have sketched it several times from a distance already" (beatification of Roscoria!), "although I have only recently come to live here. Of course I know your name. Have you not a great friend, a Mr. Tregurtha?"

"Rather!" cried Louis, "and I am glad that people connect the fact with my name."

"Why, of course," said Lyndis, looking up with kind eyes; "you two are called 'Damon and Pythias.'"

"I dare say. I am awfully proud of Dick (that's Tregurtha, Miss Villiers); he is a fine fellow, and he manages me completely. Whatever he suggests seems to be better, somehow, than what I can think of myself. It's his nature,