She was
walking in the convent garden, in her hour of recreation, tasting the sunny
air, and the beauty of the many-coloured tulips in the long narrow borders,
between two espalier rows trained with an exquisite neatness, and reputed
to bear the finest golden pippins and Bergamot pears within fifty miles of
the city. The trees were in blossom, and a wall of pink and white bloom
rose up on either hand above the scarlet and amber tulips.
Turning at the end of the long alley, where it met a wall that in August
was flushed with the crimson velvet of peaches and nectarines, Angela saw a
man advancing from the further end of the walk, attended by a lay sister.
The high-crowned hat and pointed beard, the tall figure in a grey doublet
crossed with a black sword-belt, the walk, the bearing, were unmistakable.
It might have been a figure that had stepped out of Vandyke's canvas. It
had nothing of the fuss and flutter, the feathers and ruffles, the loose
flow of brocade and velvet, that marked the costume of the young French
Court.
Angela ran to receive her father, and could scarce speak to him, she was so
startled, and yet so glad.
"Oh, sir, when I prayed for you at Mass this morning, how little I hoped
for so much happiness! I had a letter from Hyacinth only a week ago, and
she wrote nothing of your intentions.
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