held herself in reserve, even as her nature was; a psychologic something was held back. He could not dream what it might be, but reasoned with himself that it was only that she found it harder to unveil her thoughts by means of the pen than in speech.
One day, as he rode alone in the park, he noticed that the leaf buds were swelling. What! Was spring upon them? A white fog was lifting, and every twig and stem held its tiny pearl of wetness. All the earth glistened and was clean and looked as if greenness was returning. He regarded the artificial effects around him, the long lines of trees and set clumps of shrubbery, and was seized with a desire well-nigh irresistible for the wild roads and rugged steeps—the wandering streams and sound of falling waters.
He saw it all again, the blossoming spring where Cassandra sat waiting for him, and he resolved to start without delay—to go to her and bring her back with him. All this sordid calculation of the amount of his fortune—his mother's and sister's shares—the annuities of poor dependents—stocks to be bought—interest to be invested—the government, and his future part therein, pah! It must wait! He would have his own. His heritage should not be his curse.
He returned in haste that day, only to learn that certain facts had been unearthed which necessitated a journey into Wales, where interests of the former Lady Thryng's estates were concerned. His uncle had inherited all from her with the exception of certain bequests to relatives with which he had been intrusted. Some of the records had been lost, and