ducks they were, some of
them--the little, grimy, round-faced things--rolling on the grass, or
toddling after their sisters and brothers. They turned large,
inquisitive eyes upon her, which seemed to tease her heart-strings.

And suddenly,--it was in Kensington Gardens that out of the heart of a
long and vague reverie there came a flash--an illumination--which wholly
changed the life and future of Doris Meadows. After the thought in which
it took shape had seized upon her, she sat for some time motionless;
then rising to her feet, tottering a little, like one in bewilderment,
she turned northwards, and made her way hurriedly towards Lancaster
Gate. In a house there, lived a lady, a widowed lady, who was Doris's
godmother, and to whom Doris--who had lost her own mother in her
childhood--had turned for counsel before now. How long it was since she
had seen "Cousin Julia"!--nearly two months. And here she was, hastening
to her, and not able to bear the thought that in all human probability
Cousin Julia was not in town.

But, by good luck, Doris found her godmother, perching in London between
a Devonshire visit and a Scotch one. They talked long, and Doris walked
slowly home across the park. A glory of spreading sun lay over the
grassy glades; the Serpentine held reflections of a sky barred with
rose; London, transfigured, seemed a city of pearl and fire. And in
Doris's heart there was a glory like that of the evening,--and, like the
burning sky, bearing with it a promise of fair days to come. The glory
and the promise stole through all her thoughts, softening and
transmuting everything.

"When _he_ grows up--if he were to marry such a woman--and I didn't
know--if all _his_ life--and mine--were spoilt--and nobody said a word!"

Her eyes filled with tears. She seemed to be walking with Arthur through
a world of beauty, hand in hand.

How many hours to Pitlochry? She ran into the Kensington house, asking
for railway guides, and peremptorily telling Jane to get down the small
suitcase from the box-room at once.

PART III

CHAPTER V

"'Barbarians, Philistines, Populace!'"

The young golden-haired man of letters who was lounging on the grass
beside Arthur Meadows repeated the words to himself in an absent voice,
turning over the pages meanwhile of a book lying before him, as though
in search of a passage he had noticed and lost. He presently found it
again, and turned laughing towards Meadows, who was t