Mrs. Severn did not smile; she was not quite happy over her beautiful daughter.
“Give me permission to find her and add my lecture to yours,” he said, and Mrs. Severn told him she believed Clarice had gone toward the lake.
“Do not let her stay out very long, Sir Ronald. Remember, it is autumn, and the night dews are heavy.”
He promised, and went out of the long, open window into the beautiful, picturesque grounds of Mount Severn. He walked quickly toward the lake. One glance at the placid, dreamy water showed him she was not there.
“Clarice,” he said, gently, and the wind from the trees alone answered him.
Perhaps, had he found her there, Sir Ronald might have said less. It is not for me to explain how the mere fact of not being able to find anything the moment you require it enhances its value. Before he had looked for Miss Severn twenty minutes Sir Ronald had begun to believe it was necessary to his happiness that he should find her.
Far down in the shady depths of a long alley, he caught a glimpse of her dress. He hastened forward, and then stood for a few minutes to watch her, thinking to himself no poet or painter had ever dreamed of a fairer picture.
She was leaning against the rugged trunk of an old tree; green ivy clasped it round, and trailing scarlet creepers crept from bough to bough. It was a poem in itself to see the white, rounded arm, the beautiful face and golden head resting against the old tree. As he came nearer to her, Sir Ronald saw that her passionate, lovely face was wet with tears.
CHAPTER XIX.
AS A DROWNING MAN.
Sir Ronald went gently to her and called her by name. Whatever her dream might be, it was so deep that she had not heard the sound of his footsteps or the rustling of the boughs.