they set out _sans facon_,
many of them bare-headed, to walk home down tiny "Archbishop's Lane" to
the Precincts.

Rosamund walked with Mr. Dickinson on one side of her and the Dean
of Welsley and Mrs. Jasper on the other; Canon Wilton, Beattie, the
Archdeacon of Welsley and the Precentor were just in front; behind
peacefully streamed minor canons and their wives, young sons and
daughters of the Precincts, and various privileged persons who, though
not of the hierarchy, possessed small houses within the sacred pale.
Only the Bishop and his consort drove majestically home in "Harrington's
Fly."

What a chatter of voices there was under the projecting eaves of the
dear old house! What happy laughter was wafted towards the smiling moon!
Mrs. Dickinson, presently "coming up with" Rosamund's party, became
absolutely "waggish" (the Dean's expression), and made Rosamund laugh
with that almost helpless spontaneity which is the greatest compliment
to a joke. And then the gate in the ancient archway was opened, and they
all passed into their great pleasaunce, and, with a sensation of joyous
proprietorship, heard the gate shut and locked behind them, and saw the
Cathedral lifting its towers to the moon. Laughter was hushed then, and
some of the voices were silent; feet went more slowly along the edges
of the velvety lawns; the spell of ancient things which are noble, and
which tell of the noble ideals of humanity, fell upon them; their hearts
within them were lifted up.

When the Dean bade good-night to Rosamund he said:

"Your music and you mean a great deal to Welsley."

"Not half as much as Welsley means to me," she replied with earnest
sincerity.

"We are all looking forward to greeting your gallant, self-sacrificing
husband presently, very soon I hope. Good-night to you. It has been"--he
paused, looked at Rosamund and gently pressed her hand,--"a most
fragrant evening."

A most fragrant evening! When Beattie and Rosamund had eaten their
sandwiches, and drunk their still lemonade and claret, and when Beattie
had gone to bed, Rosamund slipped out alone into the dear walled garden,
and paced up and down in the moonlight.

Yes, there was something fragrant here, something that infected the
soul, something of old faiths and old holy aspirations, a murmur and a
perfume of trust and love. There might be gossip, trickling jealousies
in this little world, mean actions, even, perhaps, ugly desires and ugly
fulfilments of de