It seemed to him as if he still felt on his arm the folds of a green, fur-edged cloak, as if the touch of a soft cold hand were still lingering in his.

Presently he fell to recalling every detail of the afternoon scene,--the arching beech trees, the rich red and brown of the earth beneath, tinged with the winter sheddings of the trees, the little raised bank, her eyes as she looked up at him, the soft wisps of her golden brown hair under her hat.

What superb, unapproachable beauty it was! how living, how rich in content and expression! 'Am I in love with Isabel Bretherton ?' he asked himself at last, lying back on his chair with his eyes on the portrait of his sister.

'Perhaps Marie could tell me--I don't understand myself.

I don't think so.