I have been imaging—” “Mr. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. But I trusted to that ring of yours. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. " Lady Trafford sighed deeply. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. There would be no moon. I know now what it is to be an abandoned female.
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