And here she was, hastening to her, and not able to bear the thought that in all human probability Cousin Julia was not in town.
But, by good luck, Doris found her godmother, perching in London between a Devonshire visit and a Scotch one.

They talked long, and Doris walked slowly home across the park.

A glory of spreading sun lay over the grassy glades; the Serpentine held reflections of a sky barred with rose; London, transfigured, seemed a city of pearl and fire.

And in Doris's heart there was a glory like that of the evening,--and, like the burning sky, bearing with it a promise of fair days to come.

The glory and the promise stole through all her thoughts, softening and transmuting everything.
"When _he_ grows up--if he were to marry such a woman--and I didn't know--if all _his_ life--and mine--were spoilt--and nobody said a word!" Her eyes filled with tears.