The morning passes slowly onward; the artist, too absorbed by his work to notice the sunlight, or the sea, or the birds, is still painting when, with the striking of the midday hour there mingles the click clack of horses' hoofs on the stony street, and Leslie looking up with a start—for she has been thinking of all she has lost—sees a wagonette and a pair of stylish bays draw up to the door.
On the box is Yorke, no longer in the fisherman's jersey, but clad in Harris tweed, his handsome face bright and cheerful, his whole "get up" and manner suggesting pleasure and a holiday.
After quieting the spirited horses with words and a touch of the whip, he looks down from his high perch, and seeing the startled eyes looking up at him, raises his hat and smiles.
"Are you ready?" he inquires, just as he inquired last night.
Leslie shakes her head, and tries to smile, but the effort is a failure, and putting down her work, she comes to the open door.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she says. "Did you not get my note?"
"What note?" he asks. "Stand still, will you! No, I haven't seen any note. What was it about?"
"We cannot come," she says, with a look at the horses which is more wistful even than she knows.
His face clouds instantly.
"Not come! Oh, I say! Has anything happened? Why not? It's the loveliest day——."