"You can take the check now, Rowlandson," he said, brokenly; "I shall go
to her--and bring them home to-morrow."

He dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands; Mr.
Rowlandson turned to the fireplace. He drew from his pocketbook the note
Phyllis had signed, and held it in the grate until it blazed. Then he
puckered his mouth, curiously, as if trying to whistle. When he faced
Sir Peter again, his blue eyes twinkled.

"You owe me a shilling for a new glass for my Charterhouse print," said
he.

Ten minutes later, when Mr. Rowlandson left the house, Burbage opened
the door. He carried a parcel that clinked, as he stepped out, briskly.

"Will you require anything further, Sir Peter?" asked Burbage.

"Yes. Have Miss Phyllis's little study-room, and the two adjoining
bedrooms made ready, Burbage. My niece and her husband are coming home
to-morrow."

X

As John lay between sleep and waking, the next morning, he was conscious
that in a moment he would capture an elusive, happy thought.

He had it! The book could now be published!

While he dressed he sang an ancient ballad, at the top of his voice, to
an air he improvised.

"Phillida was a fair maide
As fresh as any flower;
Whom Harpalus the herd-man praide
To be his paramoure.

"Harpalus and eke Corin,
Were herd-men both ysere;
And Phillida would twist and spinne,
And thereto sing ful clere.

"Phyllis!" cried John. "Can you hear in the bedroom? I sing of thee!"

"I thought her name was Phillida," said Phyllis, setting the bedroom
door ajar.

"Phillida is Old English for Phyllis," he explained.

"Oh!" said Phyllis.

"But Phillida was al to coye,
For Harpalus to winne;
For Corin was her only joye,
Who forst her not a pinne.

"How often would she flowers twine!
How often garlants make
Of cowslips and of columbine;
And all for Corin's sake.

"Harpalus prevayled nought,
His labour all was lost;
For he was farthest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.

"Phyllis! I say, Phyllis!" cried John, working his hairbrushes
alternately. "I am Corin. Who was Harpalus?"

"You flatter yourself, sir," replied Phyllis "I am pining for Harpalus."

"Tell me his last name, then, that I may seek and slay him!" said John.

Between stanzas, John forgot the air, but he improvised anew, and sang
on, regardless.

"'Oh, Harpalus!' thus would he sa