That same evening Eve Pelly was in the garden with Mrs Glaire ­the old familiar garden where she had spent so many happy hours, while now she was sad with a sadness that made the tears rise and fill her eyes.

The old place, with its abundant flowers, its roses climbing the old red-brick wall, the well-shaven lawn, with its quaint rustic vases and flower-beds, and the seats where she had read and worked since a child.  It was her dear old home, and she was not going to leave it, but all the same, on this the eve of her marriage, it seemed to her that the end had come, and that she was about to bid it all farewell.

It had been an anxious day, for many friends had called, and present after present had been brought, all of which, in spite of herself, she had received with tears, and gladly escaped afterwards to the solitude of her own room.

Even the workmen had clubbed together, and, in spite of past hard times, bought a handsome silver teapot, which came “With the men’s dooty to Miss Eve.”

For they recalled her sweet gentle face, patiently watching by or bringing flowers to many a sick wife or child; and it was said that every man in the works, with all his belongings, was to be at the church next morning.

Mrs Glaire was with Eve, but at last she said she would go in, the latter pleading that she would like to stay a little longer in the soft glow of the evening sun; and so it happened that at last she was left, and feeling glad at heart that Richard had been away all day, she sat down alone to think.

It was so strange she could hardly realise it, and yet this was the last day, and to-morrow she would be Richard’s wife.

The warm glow of the setting sun was around her, but a deadly pallor was upon her face, and she began to tremble.

“Am I going to be ill?” she asked herself; and then, making an effort, she tried to shake off the feeling.

“Richard’s wife,” she mused.  “May I have strength to make him love me dearly, and to be to him the best of wives.”

It was a fervent wish, but as it passed her trembling lips, the tears began to flow, and though she fought against it, the thoughts would come rushing through her brain of what might have been had some one else known her sooner, and not looked down upon her as a poor weak, simple girl.

“Oh, but this is dreadful,” she moaned; “disloyal to poor Dick ­cruel to myself.  What shall I do!”

She was hastily drying her eyes, when a step on the gravel startled her, and Jacky Budd appeared, red-nosed as of old, and bearing a small round basket, and a packet.

“From Master Selwood, Miss Eve.  Parson said I was to gi’e ’em to yow, so I brote ’em down the garden mysen, and my dooty to you, Miss, and may you be very happy, and I’d take it kindly if yow’d let me drink your health, and long life to you.”

Eve smiled her thanks as she placed a shilling in his hand, sending Jacky away a happy man, as he calculated that that shilling contained eight gills of ale, and to him what he called comfort for his sorrows.

As the gardener went away Eve’s agitation became excessive, and she hardly dared to lift the lid of the basket.

But a short time since, and she had mentally reproached him for forgetting her, as no token whatever had arrived, only a formal note to her aunt, saying that he would be at the church at ten the next morning, while all the time his thoughts had been of her, for here was the token.

A glad flush overspread her cheeks, as at last she took the basket and raised the lid, to find within a large bouquet of costly white exotics, the stephanotis amongst which sent forth its sweet perfume, mingled with that of orange blossoms ­a gift to a bride.

“A gift to a bride,” she whispered, and the flush faded, even as the sunbeams were paling fast in the trees above her head.

A bitter sigh escaped her lips ­a sigh that was almost a moan, and as she raised the bouquet and kissed it, the tears fell fast, and lay glistening like rain amidst the petals.

“If he knew; if he knew,” she whispered, “it would be cruel; but he does not know ­he never will know, and after to-night this must be as a dream.”

Almost mechanically she took the little square white packet that lay on the garden seat by her side, and breaking the seal, on which was the vicar’s crest, she found a small square morocco case; and when at last her trembling fingers had pressed the snap and raised the lid, there upon pale blue velvet lay a large oval locket, crusted with diamonds and pearls, a costly gift that glistened in the fading light, and beside it a scrap of paper, with the words ­

“God bless you!  May you be very happy.”

Eve sat with one hand laid upon her bosom to still its throbbings, and then her lips were pressed to the locket ­longer still to the scrap of paper, before the case was shut, and she sat gazing up at the first stars in the pale, soft sky.

A low, deep sigh escaped her lips, and then with a weary look round ­

“I am stronger now,” she said, and rose to go, but only shrank back in her seat as she heard a rustling noise, and then a thud, as if some one had jumped from the wall, while before she could recover herself, Tom Podmore stood before her.

“Is ­is anything wrong?” she gasped; for in her nervous state this sudden apparition suggested untold horrors to her excited brain.

“It’s only me, Miss Eve.  I wanted just a word.”

“Why ­why did you not come to the house?” she faltered,

“Don’t be scarred, miss.  I only wanted to be sure o’ seeing you alone.  I just want to ask you something.”

“Yes,” she said, composing herself.

“I want to ask you to forgive me, miss, if I hurt your feelings, and do something as’ll make you feel bitter again me.”

“You would not hurt me, Tom?” said Eve, rising and laying her hand upon his arm.

“God knows I wouldn’t, miss, any more than I would one of His angels,” said the young fellow, excitedly; “and that’s why I’ve come.  I couldn’t feel as it weer raight not to come, and even though you may think it spiteful, it isn’t, but on’y for your sake alone.”

“Yes,” said Eve, who felt giddy.  “You have something dreadful to tell me.”

“No, Miss,” said the young man, solemnly, “not to tell you, only a note to gi’e you.”

“A note ­from Mr Selwood?”

“No, miss,” said Tom, not seeing the warm flush in the girl’s face, “a note as weer sent last night to my Daisy, and which she give to me an hour ago.”

“A note?” faltered Eve, again.

“Yes, miss, a note.  Daisy talked it ower wi’ me, and I said as you ought to see it; and even if it hurts you sore, I felt I must gi’e it to you, and theer it is.”

Eve felt the paper, and was aware of the fact that her visitor had scrambled over the wall, and was gone, and still she stood clutching the paper tightly, till a voice made her start, and thrust the paper into her bosom.

“Eve, my child, it is damp and late.”

It was Mrs Glaire calling, and, picking up her presents, Eve slowly went up the garden, feeling like one in a dream, till she entered through the open window, where Mrs Glaire was waiting.

“Why, you are quite cold, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, tenderly, as she closed the windows, and led the trembling girl to an easy chair by the tea-table, the shaded lamp shedding a pleasant glow upon the steaming urn.

“It is getting cold, aunt,” said Eve, with a shiver; and she drank the tea poured ready for her with avidity.

“More presents, my darling?” said Mrs Glaire, leaning over and kissing her.  “Eve, child, you are making me very happy.”

Eve’s arms were flung round her neck, and she sobbed there in silence for a few moments.

“Don’t cry, my darling; try and think it is for the best.  It is ­you know it is, and the past must all be forgotten.  But where is Dick?  He must be buying presents, or arranging something, or he would be here,” she said, cheerfully.  “By the way, Eve, what are those?  Did Richard send them?”

“No, aunt,” said Eve, hoarsely; “they are from Mr Selwood.”

“Always a kind, good friend,” said Mrs Glaire, whose voice shook a little as she looked at the gifts.  “Make Richard think better of him, Eve, for he is a true, good friend.”

Eve did not answer, for her hand was upon her breast, and beneath that hand she could feel the paper.  Her great dread was that Richard should come back, and she prayed that he might not return.

Ten o’clock sounded, and then eleven, from the little pendule on the chimney-piece, and still he did not come; and Mrs Glaire, noticing the poor girl’s agitation, proposed rest.

“I will sit up for Dick, Eve,” she said, cheerfully.  “He is preparing some surprise;” but, as soon as her niece had kissed her lovingly, and left the room, a haggard look came over the mother’s countenance, and she knelt down for a few moments beside the couch.

She started up, though, for she heard her son’s step in the hall, and he entered directly, looking hot and flushed.

“Where’s Evey?” he asked.

“Gone to bed, my boy,” replied Mrs Glaire.  “Dick, you should have stayed at home to-night.”

“Oh, all right,” he said, lightly, and with a bitter sneer; “it’s the last night, and I thought I might have a run.”

“I’m not blaming you, dear,” said Mrs Glaire, kissing his forehead; “only poor Eve looked so sad and ill to-night.”

Had she seen her then, she would have cried out in fear, for, with an open paper in her hand, Eve was pacing up and down her room, to throw herself at last upon her knees in agony, and after many hours sob herself to sleep.