him the way to the fairest roses. The hope of seeing her shone in every
line. It reached Alice Yorke in the midst of preparation for
her marriage.

Alice Yorke sat for some time in meditation over this letter. It brought
back vividly the time which she had never wholly forgotten. Often, in
the midst of scenes so gay and rich as to amaze her, she had recalled
the springtime in the budding woods, with an ardent boy beside her,
worshipping her with adoring eyes. She had lived close to Nature then,
and Content once or twice peeped forth at her from its covert with calm
and gentle eyes. She had known pleasure since then, joy, delight, but
never content. However, it was too late now. Mr. Lancaster and her
mother had won the day; she had at last accepted him and an
establishment. She had accepted her fate or had made it.

She showed the letter to her mother. Mrs. Yorke's face took on an
inscrutable expression.

"You are not going to answer it, of course?" she said.

"Of course, I am; I am going to write him the nicest letter that I know
how to write. He is one of the best friends I ever had."

"What will Mr. Lancaster say?"

"Mr. Lancaster quite understands. He is going to be reasonable; that is
the condition."

This appeared to be satisfactory to Mrs. Yorke, or, at least, she said
no more.