after messing about
with the dogs. Do you mind?"

"Not a bit," she said.

"But, Honoria,"--he rubbed his cool cheek against her bare neck--"I
say, don't you think you might come and see me, just for a little weeny
while, after I'm in bed to-night?"

And young Lady Calmady, thus coaxed, held the slight figure close. She
had a very special place in her heart for this small Dick, who in face,
and as she hoped in nature also, bore such comfortable resemblance to
that elder, and altogether well-beloved, Dick who was the delight of
her life.

"Yes, dear, old chap, I'll come," she said. "Only it must really be for
a little, weeny while, because you must go to sleep. By the way, who's
going to valet you these holidays? Clara or Faulstich?"

"Oh, neither," the boy answered. "I think I'm rather old for women now,
don't you know, Honoria."--At which statement she laughed, his cheek
being again tucked tight into the turn of her neck. "I shall have
Andrews in future. I asked Cousin Richard about it. He's a very
civil-mannered fellow, and he knows about yachts and things, and he
says he likes being up before five o'clock."

"Does he? Excellently veracious young man!" Honoria remarked.

But thereupon, exuberance of joy demanding active expression, the boy
broke away with a whoop and set off running. The puppies lolloped away
at his heels. And young Lady Calmady--whom such giddy fancies still
took at times, notwithstanding nearly three years of marriage--flew
after the trio, the train of her dress floating out behind her to most
admired extravagance of length as she skimmed along the path. Fair
lady, boy, and dogs disappeared, with sounds of merriment, into the
near garden-hall; reappeared upon the terrace, bearing down, but at
sobering pace, upon the occupants of the chairs set at the end of it.
One man rose to his feet, a tall, narrow, black figure. The other
remained seated. The light shining forth from the great bay-window of
the hall touched the little group, conferring a certain grandeur upon
the graceful, white-clad Honoria. Her satin dress shimmered as she
moved. There was, as of old, a triumph of high purity, of freedom of
soul, in her aspect. Her voice came, with a fine gladness yet soft
richness of tone, across that intervening triangular space of sloping
turf upon which terrace and troco-ground alike looked down. The
nightingale, who had fallen silent during the skirmish, took up his
passionate singing again, and