CHAPTER II.

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FIRST LOVE.

HE first two days after the Blakes' arrival at Cambo, were, as often happens in the late spring and early summer of those latitudes, wet and stormy. Honor was herself too busy to go out, and she rightly guessed that Edith was kept at home by the weather.

On the evening of the third day she received the following note :

'DEAREST HONOR,-I should have come to see you before this, but that my throat is sore again, and papa will not let me go out, with the risk of getting wet. On Monday we were in Bayonne, where we went to meet my cousin, who has come to spend some time with us. I

saw Madame Quinqualeronvontroyez, and heard from her that you were all coming to Cambo on Wednesday morning. We meant to have gone out to Anglet that afternoon; but the rain came on, and the wetting I then got is, I think, the cause of my sore throat; however, it is nearly well now.

'I hope your mother does not feel the damp much, and that Newton likes Cambo. Can you manage to come and dine with us tomorrow? I know you do not mind a little wet. Bring Emmy of course.-Your loving

'EDITH.'

'I do not see how I can leave you, mamma, for a whole afternoon,' said Honor.

'Nonsense!' cried Newton good-naturedly, Emmy and I will take care of mamma; you must go.'

'Yes,' put in Emmy; 'you will see how useful I can be; Newton likes me to read to him very much now.'

Honor kissed the child, and thanked her. She was sorry to miss her companionship, but felt that Emmy would, in great measure, pre

vent Mrs. Blake and Newton from feeling her absence.

The Bertrams' house was more than a mile distant, the road thereto lying along that same woodland path where she had last seen Sir Edward Wrexhill.

She always thought of him when she went along it, but to-day no sad memory seemed to have any place in her mind. The sun was shining brightly that morning, and everything fresh and glistening after the late rain.

The moss on which Honor trode was not more elastic than her own step; the voices of the birds in the trees above her, and the musical current of the little brook by her side, sounded not more joyous than the voice of youth and hope stirring in her own heart in this fair spring-time.

Wild-flowers clustered in the coppices, sweet odours filled the air, and Honor's spirit, ever in most delicate accord with outward nature, shook off all pain and care, as the woods did the rain of yesterday.

Her disappointment at not going to Paris had been amply made up for by the silent con

sciousness of a kindness done to her sister, as well as by the hope of a later visit to dear Lady Tracy; the pain caused by Charlie's conduct had been driven from her memory by other family cares, and now these, for the time, were also in abeyance. The holiday before her too seemed very sweet; one must work hard, and constantly, to know the value of a holiday;;surely all this was enough to account for the light step and heart with which she pursued her walk. She had wondered once or twice what sort of person Edith's cousin was. She would rather have had Edith all to herself, but Honor was not naturally jealous, and Edith's cousin must be nice. 'I suppose she is unmarried,' said Honor to herself; I wonder if she is older or younger than Edith;' and so she passed through the wood, little dreaming that all this joyous spring of life and hope was half prophetic; little dreaming that this Cambo wood should become to her, ere many weeks were fled, what Eden was to Eve.

Edith had a little sitting-room detached from the rest of the house, which looked out on a flower-garden, and commanded from the terrace

on which it opened a splendid view of the valley. This was her favourite haunt in the summer-time, and Honor, as usual, passed through the garden and went in by the glass door from the terrace.

A gust of wind came in with her, and a voice, not Edith's, called out—

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Oh, shut the door quickly, please!'

Honor obeyed, shutting herself inside, and not till then did she see how much the room was altered from its usual neat appearance. A litter of books and writing apparatus covered the tables, a concertina and a pile of music lay in one window, and in the other a microscope and a quantity of ferns, dried insects, and other natural specimens. In a corner, opposite the door, a sort of tent was erected, of dark blue material, studiously arranged to keep out the light, and from inside this tent the voice that had addressed Honor proceeded.

A slender finely formed hand, stained all over with ink, as it seemed to Honor, in a most untidy manner, stole out of this tent, and rearranged the drapery, which the wind had disordered, and the voice said again—