eyes growing softly dark, "that my son in winning
glory might rob other mothers of their joy."

In their rides and talks together he would relate to his father the
story of his campaign, describe to him the brilliant exploits of the
great Duke, whom he had seen in his most magnificent hours, as only
those who fought by his side had seen him; but with her Grace he did
not dwell upon such things, knowing she would not be the happier for
hearing of them. With her he would walk through the park, sauntering
down the avenue beneath the oak-trees, or over the green sward to visit
the deer, who knew the sound of her sweet voice, it seemed, and hearing
it as she approached would lift their delicate heads and come towards
her to be caressed and fed, welcoming her with the dewy lustrousness of
their big timorous dark eyes, even the shyest does and little fawns
nibbling from her fair and gentle hand, and following her softly a few
paces when she turned away. Together she and Roxholm would wander
through all the dear places he had loved in his childish years--into
the rose gardens, which were a riot of beauty and marvellous colours
and the pride and joy of the head gardener, who lived for and among
them, as indeed they were the pride of those who worked under his
command, not a man or boy of them knowing any such pleasure as to see
her Grace walk through their labyrinths of bloom with my lord Marquess,
each of them rejoicing in the loveliness on every side and gathering
the fairest blossoms as they went, until sometimes they carried away
with them rich sheaves of crimson and pink and white and yellow. They
loved the high-walled kitchen garden, too, and often visited it,
spreading delight there among its gardeners by praising its fine
growths, plucking the fruit and gathering nosegays of the old-fashioned
flowers which bordered the beds of sober vegetables--sweet peas and
Canterbury bells, wall-flowers, sweetwilliams, yellow musk, and
pansies, making, her Grace said, the prettiest nosegay in the world.
Then they would loiter through the village and make visits to old men
and women sitting in the sun, to young mothers with babies in their
arms and little mites playing about their feet.

"And you never enter a cottage door, mother," said Roxholm in his young
manhood's pride and joy in her, "but it seems that the sun begins to
shine through the little window, and if there is a caged bird hanging
there it begins to twitter and sing. I