By the Tyrrhenian Waters.
Ella was all mine—all mine! Mine all the glad fearless freedom of her life; mine all the sweet kisses, the rapturous tenderness, the priceless passion of her love; mine all! And I had lost them.
The grave had given her back for those brief hours, but she was, alas! dead to me.
I stood there as a man in a dream.
I, athirst for the sound of her sweet voice as dying men in deserts for the fountains of lost lands.
But all was silence, save the lark trilling his song high above me in the morning air.
I turned upon my heel, and went forward a changed man.
At the inn I made further inquiries regarding the tenant of the “Glen.”
The stout yellow-haired maid-of-all-work who brought me in my breakfast was a native of the village and inclined to be talkative. From her I learned that Mr Gordon-Wright had had the place about four years. He spent only about three months or so each summer there, going abroad each year for the winter. To the poor he was always very good; he was chairman of the Flower Show Committee, chairman of the Parish Council, and one of the school managers as well as a church-warden.
I smiled within myself at what the girl told me. He was evidently a popular man in Upper Wooton.