There, beyond the cedar, so as to be hidden from any one upon the river, sat Stella, decking a cross with lilies-of-the-valley and white lilacs. Scamp was lying by her, and her doves parading and cooing on the grass and cedar boughs beside her; but the utter droop and dejection of her young figure were altogether out of keeping with the summer surroundings; the shining head was bowed, and the heavy eyelids with broad red rings around them showed that she had wept and wept on for hours. She did not hear the step on the soft grass, for her low sad voice was murmuring, 'My Tedo, my darling, my baby, is this the last thing I shall ever do for him?'

Then Scamp wagged his tail and crested his ears in greeting, and the doves circled about, and perched higher upon the cedar tree, while Charles, holding one of the flat sweeping boughs back, stood looking down at her, as hardly knowing how to greet her, and with a tear gathering in his eyes. She stood up, and looked up to him meekly and sweetly, with a touching sort of welcome, as she held out her hand, saying simply, 'You saved me, and I never thanked you yesterday.'

Instead of speaking, Charles lifted the little hand in both his to his lips and cheek for a moment, as if nothing else could express how he prized that chance; but if Stella thought at all, it was that it was a kind action of comforting.

'Your brother is better,' he said, having inquired at Page's door.

'Yes, he is better. I saw him, and he just spoke; but he does look so bad!'

'He will soon mend now,' said Charles, with the confidence of one who knew nothing about it. 'And you are all alone?'

'They are all busy or resting or something, and I want to do it all for Theodore myself—my own own darling!' The last words were a moan to herself, as she sat down in her low chair and resumed the little cross.

'May not I help a little?' softly entreated Charles, sitting down on the grass and quietly handing her the flowers, ready arranged in bunches, with a leaf. She did not speak, but seemed to like it. There was a loneliness about her that again struck him, so that he could not help half blaming those who had left her to herself; and to account for their absence asked after Lance.

'He is up, but he seems very poorly still,' she said; 'he is lying down in the Prior's room.'

'And they have left you all to yourself?'