Gilbert Fenton took the packet back to the cottage next morning. He was
to return to London that afternoon, and had only a few hours to spend
with Marian. The day was dull and cold, but there was no rain; and they
walked together in the garden, where the leaves were beginning to fall,
and whence every appearance of summer seemed to have vanished since
Gilbert's last visit.
For some time they were both rather silent, pacing thoughtfully up and
down the sheltered walk that bounded the lawn. Gilbert found it
impossible to put on an appearance of hopefulness on this last day. It
was better wholly to give up the attempt, and resign himself to the gloom
that brooded over him, shutting out the future. That airy castle of
his--the villa on the banks of the Thames--seemed to have faded and
vanished altogether. He could not look beyond the Australian journey to
the happy time of his return. The hazards of time and distance bewildered
him. He felt an unspeakable dread of the distance that was to divide him
from Marian Nowell--a dread that grew stronger with every hour. He was
destined to suffer a fresh pang before the moment of parting came. Marian
turned to him by-and-by with an earnest anxious face, and said,--
"Gilbert, there is something which I think I ought to say to you before
you go away.
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