ng happened. Garth
began to play The Rosary. The string of pearls dropped in liquid sound
from his fingers; and Nurse Rosemary read her telegram. It was from the
doctor, and said: SPECIAL LICENSE EASILY OBTAINED. FLOWER AND I WILL
COME WHENEVER YOU WISH. WIRE AGAIN.

The Rosary drew to a soft melancholy close.

"What shall I play next?" asked Garth, suddenly.

"Veni, Creator Spiritus," said Nurse Rosemary; and bowed her head in
prayer.

CHAPTER XXXIII

"SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN!"

Wednesday dawned; an ideal First of May: Garth was in the garden before
breakfast. Jane heard him singing, as he passed beneath her window.

"It is not mine to sing the stately grace, The great soul beaming in my
lady's face."

She leaned out.

He was walking below in the freshest of white flannels; his step so
light and elastic; his every movement so lithe and graceful; the only
sign of his blindness the Malacca cane he held in his hand, with which
he occasionally touched the grass border, or the wall of the house. She
could only see the top of his dark head. It might have been on the
terrace at Shenstone, three years before. She longed to call from the
window; "Darling--my Darling! Good morning! God bless you to-day."

Ah what would to-day bring forth;--the day when her full confession,
and explanation, and plea for pardon, would reach him? He was such a
boy in many ways; so light-hearted, loving, artistic, poetic,
irrepressible; ever young, in spite of his great affliction. But where
his manhood was concerned; his love; his right of choice and of
decision; of maintaining a fairly-formed opinion, and setting aside the
less competent judgment of others; she knew him rigid, inflexible. His
very pain seemed to cool him, from the molten lover, to the bar of
steel.

As Jane knelt at her window that morning, she had not the least idea
whether the evening would find her travelling to Aberdeen, to take the
night mail south; or at home forever in the heaven of Garth's love.

And down below he passed again, still singing:

"But mine it is to follow in her train;
Do her behests in pleasure or in pain;
Burn at her altar love's sweet frankincense,
And worship her in distant reverence."

"Ah, beloved!" whispered Jane, "not 'distant.' If you want her, and
call her, it will be to the closest closeness love can devise. No more
distance between you and me."

And then, in the curious way in which inspired words w