rey, and they three sat till midnight talking happily--Miss
Skipwith of theology, the other two of themselves and the smiling
future, and such an innocent forest life as Rosalind and Orlando may
have promised themselves, when they were deep in love, and the banished
duke's daughter sighed for no wider kingdom than a shepherd's hut in
the woodland, with the lover of her choice.

There were plenty of spare bedrooms at the manor house, but so bare and
empty, so long abandoned of human occupants, as to be fit only for the
habitation of mice and spiders, stray bat or wandering owl. So Roderick
had to walk down the hill again to St. Helier's, where he found
hospitality at an hotel. He was up betimes, too happy to need much
sleep, and at seven o'clock he and Vixen were walking in the dewy
garden, planning the wonderful life they were to lead at Briarwood, and
all the good they were to do. Happiness was to radiate from their home,
as heat from the sun. The sick, and the halt, and the lame were to come
to Briarwood; as they had come to the Abbey House before Captain
Winstanley's barren rule of economy.

"God has been so good to us, Rorie," said Vixen, nestling at her lovers
side. "Can we ever be good enough to others?"

"We'll do our best, anyhow, little one," he answered gently. "I am not
like Mallow, I've no great ideas about setting my native country in
order and doing away with the poor laws; but I've always tried to make
the people round me happy, and to keep them out of the workhouse and
the county jail."

They went to the court-yard where poor Argus lived his life of
isolation, and they told him they were going to be married, and that
his pathway henceforward would be strewn with roses, or at all events
Spratt's biscuits. He was particularly noisy and demonstrative, and
appeared to receive this news with a wild rapture that was eminently
encouraging, doing his best to knock Roderick down, in the tumult of
his delight. The lovers and the dog were alike childish in their
infinite happiness, unthinking beings of the present hour, too happy to
look backward or forward, this little space of time called "now"
holding all things needful for delight.

These are the rare moments of life, to which the heart of man cries,
"Oh stay, thou art so beautiful!" and could the death-bell toll then,
and doom come then, life would end in a glorious euthanasia.

Violet's portmanteaux were packed. Alt was ready. There would be just
time