Mrs. Penfold smiled.
"For you, Miss Stella. Is it likely he'd leave them for your uncle?"
"I don't know," said Stella; "he is uncle's friend, not mine. Will you put them in water, please?"
Mrs. Penfold took them with a little air of disappointment. It was not in this cool manner that she expected Stella to receive the flowers.
"Yes, miss; and there's nothing to be done?"
"No," said Stella; "except to wait for my uncle's return."
Mrs. Penfold hesitated a moment, then she went out.
Stella made an effort to eat some breakfast, but it was a failure; she felt restless and listless; a spell seemed to have been cast over the little house—a spell of mystery and secrecy.
After breakfast she took up her hat and wandered about the garden, communing with herself, and ever watching the path across the meadows, though she knew that her uncle could not possibly return yet.
The day wore away and the evening came, and as the daylight gave place to sunset, Stella's heart beat faster. All day she had been thinking—dreaming of the hour that was now so near at hand, longing for and yet almost dreading it. This love was so strange, so mysterious a thing, that it almost frightened her.