his head
appeared on a level with the wide ledge of the casement.

Lucy was unconscious of his presence till he said,--

'I would fain hear that song again, Lucy.'

'Nay,' she said with a smile; 'once is enough.'

'Did you think of me as you sang?' he asked.

'Perhaps,' she said, with something of her old spirit. 'Perhaps; but you
must know there is another who hath my heart. I have been singing him to
sleep, and I pray you do not come in with a heavy tramp of your big boots
and wake him. He has been fractious to-day. Speak softly,' she said, as
George exclaimed,--

'The young rascal! I warrant you have near broken your back carrying him to
and fro.'

'My back is not so easy to break; but, George, when will the travellers
come. I have made all things ready these two days and more.'

'They may arrive any moment now,' George said, and then his bright handsome
face disappeared from the window, and in another moment he had come as
quietly as was possible for him, into the sunny parlour, now beautified by
silken drapery, worked by Lucy's clever fingers, and sweet with the
fragrance of flowers in the beau-pot on the hearth and fresh rushes on the
floor.

In a large wooden cradle lay his first-born son--named in memory of one
whom neither husband nor wife could ever forget--Philip. The child was
small and delicate, and Lucy had tasted not only the sweets of motherhood,
but its cares.

Yet little Philip was very fair to look upon. He had the refined features
of his mother, and though his cheeks wanted something of the roundness and
rosiness of healthful infancy, he was, in his parents' eyes, as near
perfection as first-born children are ever apt to be thought!

George paused by the cradle, which was raised on high rockers, and, bending
over it, said,--

'He is sound asleep now,' just touching the little hand lying outside the
coverlet with his great fingers as gently as his mother could have done.

'I won't be jealous of him, eh, Lucy? He is mine as well as yours,
sweetheart.'

'That is a truism,' Lucy said. 'Now, come into the window-seat and talk
low--if you must talk--and let us watch for those who are, I pray God,
drawing near.'

George unfastened his leather pouch which was slung over his shoulder, and
put the bow and quiver against the corner of the bay window.

Then he threw his huge form at his wife's feet on the dais, and said,--

'Do not be too eager for their coming, sweetheart. I half dread the