He ferreted about in all quarters; made inquiries of a number of persons from whom he thought he might obtain the desired information, but was unable to get the faintest clue to anyone. He pushed his inquiries still further, but was in no way successful.
He frequently bent his steps in the direction of the widow’s cottage, where dwelt the woman for whom he was ready to make any sacrifice. He hovered about the house and grounds in a state of hopeless and almost incurable despair.
It was even some solace for him to contemplate the habitation, and to conjure up, by the agency of imagination, the fair young creature moving about from room to room.
One day, while traversing the lane, he heard voices in the garden; they proceeded from the other side of the hedge which skirted the grounds.
Peace came to a halt—listened most attentively. He could hear the low, musical tones of Aveline, and hear also the voice of a man in close converse with her.
His heart beat audibly, his pulse quickened.
“She has some one with her,” he murmured.
Moved by a sudden impulse, he crept by the side of the fence until he had gained the extreme end of the garden. A quickset hedge ran along this, through the interstices of which Peace was able, unobserved, to obtain a view of the summer-house, upon which his eyes were now riveted.
He saw Aveline Maitland seated therein. By her side was a tall, handsome young man, whose looks denoted the state of his heart. He was whispering loving words to her—so Peace imagined, and was by no means mistaken.
It was evident that he was saying something that pleased her, for ever and anon she smiled.