koo, cuckoo," "crake, crake,"
buzzing and burring of bees, coo of turtle-doves, now and then a neigh,
to remind you that there were horses, fulness and richness of musical
sound; a world of grass and leaf, humming like a hive with voices.

When the east wind ceases, and the sun shines above, and the flowers
beneath, "a summer's day in lusty May," then is the time an Interlude in
Heaven.

And all this, summer-house and all, had dropped out of the pocket of
Iden's ragged old coat.

There was a magic power of healing in the influences of this place which
Iden had created. Both Amadis and Alere Flamma had already changed for
the better.

That morning when Amaryllis had found them, just arrived, the one with a
portmanteau, and the other with a carpet-bag, they were both pale to the
last degree of paleness.

Three years had gone by since Amadis had stayed at Coombe Oaks before,
when Amaryllis was thirteen and he eighteen; fine romps they had then, a
great girl, and a great boy, rowing on the water, walking over the
hills, exploring the woods; Amadis shooting and fishing, and Amaryllis
going with him, a kind of gamekeeper page in petticoats. They were of
the same stock of Idens, yet no relations; he was of the older branch,
Amaryllis of the younger.

She had grown into a woman; Amadis Iden into a man.

Sadly, indeed, he had altered. Looking at him, she could scarce believe
he was the same; so pale, so thin, so drooping, and fireless--the spark
of life sunk into the very ashes. He sat at the dinner-table that
morning like a ghost. He was convalescent from low fever: that dread
disease which has taken the place of ague in the country. At one time it
was ague; in these times it is low fever.

At Coombe Oaks they had heard of his illness in a far-off way, but had
received no distinct particulars, for the news came in a roundabout way
by word of mouth, country-folk never write. The distance between the two
houses was less than ten miles, and might as well have been five hundred
for all the communication.

So that the ghastly paleness of his face came upon her as a spectre in
daylight. You could see at a glance what was wrong--the vital energy had
been sapped; as a tree fades without a branch broken, or bark scored,
fades and withers from the lack of the mysterious force which brings
forth fresh leaves, so he drooped in his chair. The body--the tree--was
there, but the life was not in it.

Alere Flamma, aged forty-nine,