all of that afternoon with Becky. But not a word did he
say about his departure. He never spoiled a thing like this with
"Good-bye." Back at Waterman's, Kemp was packing trunks. In
forty-eight hours there would be the folding of tents, and Hamilton
Hill would be deserted. It added a pensiveness to his manner that made
him more than ever charming. It rained on the way home, and it seemed
to him significant that his first ride and his last with Becky should
have been in the rain.

He stayed to dinner, and afterwards he and Becky walked together in the
fragrance of the wet garden. A new moon hung low for a while and was
then lost behind the hills.

"My little girl," George said when the moment came that he must go, "My
dear little girl." He gathered her up in his arms--but did not kiss
her. For once in his life, Georgie-Porgie was too deeply moved for
kisses.

After he had gone, Becky went into the Bird Room, and stood on the
hearth and looked up at the Trumpeter Swan. There was no one to whom
she could speak of the ecstasy which surged through her. As a child
she had brought her joys here, and her sorrows--her Christmas presents
in the early morning--the first flowers of the spring. She had sat
here often in her little black frock and had felt the silent sympathy
of the wise old bird.

He gazed down at her now with an almost uncanny intelligence. She
laughed a little and standing on tiptoe laid her cheek against the cool
glass. "When I am married," was her wordless question, "will you sound
your trumpet high up near the moon?"

CHAPTER VII

MADEMOISELLE MIDAS

I

There came to Huntersfield the next morning at about the same moment,
Kemp in his little car with a small parcel for Becky, and Calvin with a
big box from the express office.

Becky was in her room at breakfast when Calvin brought the boxes up to
her. It was a sunshiny morning, and the Judge had gone a-fishing with
Mr. Flippin. Becky, in a lace cap and a robe that was delicately blue,
sat in a big chair with a low table in front of her.

There were white roses on the table in a silver bowl. The Judge had
sent them to her. The Judge had for the women of his family a feeling
that was almost youthfully romantic, and which was, unquestionably,
old-fashioned. He liked to think that they had roses for their little
noses, ribbons and laces for their pretty faces. He wanted no harsh
winds to blow on them. And in return for the sof