g on his knees before Clotilde.

'I--er, I beg your pardon,' he says, 'but really, Jimmy, I wish you
would keep your legs to yourself.'

'Me,' says Dalrymple, regardless of grammar and looking quite
unconscious, 'never was further from doing anything else, in my life.'

'May you be forgiven,' whispers Lippa, who has observed it all--but
aloud she says, 'Won't you have some tea.'

'No thanks, really not,' replies Helmdon, 'but if I may stay, we may as
well tell the fly to go away.'

'Do,' says Dalrymple rising, 'have you got anything with you,' and
together they go back to the house, where Jimmy explains all, including
Clotilde, and the kick.

'Thanks, awfully, old man,' says Helmdon, 'I couldn't make it out a bit,
what!'

* * * * *

The evening is lovely, and two and two they gradually leave the
drawing-room, to Chubby, who, his body in one chair, and his legs in
another, is wrapt in peaceful slumbers. Mabel and her husband walk
slowly up and down, before the house discussing their children and
friends.

Quite unconsciously Paul and Clotilde take their way to the little
church, and pause not till they come to their baby's grave. The moon
shines down on them, as side by side they stand on the edge of the
cliff, the dark ocean stretching out before them, a type of the unknown
future that will be theirs.

Paul becomes aware that she is crying, and says, turning her face up to
his. 'My darling, dry your eyes, we have all done wrong, but it is no
use dwelling on the past, a future lies before us, in which by God's
help, we will try to atone for the past, "Heaven means crowned not
vanquished when it says forgiven."' For all answer Clotilde goes close
to him, and lays her sad weary head against his shoulder.

'Paul,' she murmurs, 'how good you are,' and then there is a silence
more eloquent than words.

In the meantime Jimmy and Philippa hand in hand have reached a
cornfield.

'Let us stop here,' she says seating herself on a stile.

'Very well,' he replies, following her example, 'only we must not stay
out too late you know.'

'No, we won't,' says Lippa, 'but Jimmy, dear, don't you feel awfully
happy, because I do.'

'Sitting on this stile,' queries he.

'No, of course not, don't be stupid, but,' and she puts her arm round
his neck, 'everybody is all right, are they not? Mabel has her child
back, Paul has Clotilde, and oh, Jimmy darling, I've got you.'

There is a little