For once, however, Victor was mistaken. Gradually the hope that
she could ever be aught to Richard was dying out of Grace's heart,
and though, for an instant, she turned very white when, as if by
accident, he told the news, it was more from surprise at Edith's
conduct than from any new feeling that she had lost him. She was
in the garden bending over a bed of daffodils, so he did not see
her face, but he knew from her voice how astonished she was and
rather wondered that she could question him so calmly as she did,
asking if Edith were very happy, when the wedding was to be, and
even wondering at Richard's willingness to wait so long.

"Women are queer any way," was Victor's mental comment, as, balked
of his intention to see Grace Atherton squirm, he bade her good
morning, and bowed himself from the garden, having first received
her message that she would come up in the course of the day, and
congratulate the newly betrothed.

Once alone, Grace's calmness all gave way; and though the
intelligence did not affect her as it once would have done, the
fibres of her heart quivered with pain, and a sense of dreariness
stole over her, as, sitting down on the thick, trailing boughs of
an evergreen, she covered her face with her hands, and wept as
women always weep over a blighted hope. It was all in vain that
her pet kitten came gamboling to her feet, rubbing against her
dress, climbing upon her shoulder, and playfully touching, with
her velvet paw, the chestnut curls which fell from beneath her
bonnet. All in vain that the Newfoundland dog came to her side,
licking her hands and gazing upon her with a wondering, human look
of intelligent. Grace had no thought for Rover or for Kitty, and
she wept on, sometimes for Arthur, sometimes for Edith, but