The woods were uninteresting, and Grace stayed indoors a great deal. She became quite a student, reading more than she had done since her marriage But her seclusion¹ was always broken for the periodical visit to Winterborne’s grave with Marty, which was kept up with pious² strictness, for the purpose of putting snow-drops, primroses³, and other vernal flowers thereon as they came.

One afternoon at sunset she was standing⁴ just outside her father’s garden, which, like the rest of the Hintock enclosures, abutted⁵ into the wood. A slight foot-path led along here, forming a secret way to either of the houses by getting through its boundary hedge. Grace was just about to adopt this mode of entry when a figure approached along the path, and held up his hand to detain her. It was her husband.

“I am delighted,” he said, coming up out of breath; and there seemed no reason to doubt his words. “I saw you some way off — I was afraid you would go in before I could reach you.”

“It is a week before the time,” said she, reproachfully. “I said a fortnight from the last meeting.”

“My dear, you don’t suppose I could wait a fortnight without trying to get a glimpse of you, even though you had declined to meet me! Would it make you angry to know that I have been along this path at dusk three or four times since our last meeting? Well, how are you?”

She did not refuse her hand, but when he showed a wish to retain it a moment longer than mere⁶ formality required, she made it smaller, so that it slipped away from him, with again that same alarmed look which always followed his attempts in this direction. He saw that she was not yet out of the elusive⁷ mood; not yet to be treated presumingly; and he was correspondingly careful to tranquillize her.

His assertion had seemed to impress her somewhat. “I had no idea you came so often,” she said. “How far do you come from?”

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