"She may be in ill health."
"She may be," unsympathetically.
"You do not seem very prepossessed in her favor," says Lilian, impatiently.
"Well, I confess I am not," carelessly. "Experience has taught me that when a woman withdraws persistently from the society of her own sex, and eschews the companionship of her fellow-creatures, there is sure to be something radically wrong with her."
"But you forget there are exceptions to every rule. I confess I would give anything to see her," says Lilian, warmly.
"I don't believe you would be the gainer by that bargain," replies he, with conviction, being oddly, unaccountably prejudiced against this silent, undemonstrative widow.
* * * * * * *
Meantime, Cyril pursues his way along the path, that every day of late he has traveled with unexampled perseverance. Seven times he has passed along it full of hope, and only twice has been rewarded, with a bare glimpse of the fair unknown, whose face has obstinately haunted him since his first meeting with it.
On these two momentous occasions, she has appeared to him so pale and wan that he is fain to believe the color he saw in her cheeks on that first day arose from vexation and excitement, rather than health,—a conclusion that fills him with alarm.
Now, as he nears the house between the interstices of the hedge he catches the gleam of a white gown moving to and fro, that surely covers his divinity.