dull, monotonous, uneventful, since, reared in the green
landscape with farmlands and woods around, you are bound through custom
to neglect the pleasures of imagination, and see it only without
observing."

"I am glad you are so enthusiastic over Copthorne," replies Eleanor,
catching at the meadow-sweet, and crumbling it between her fingers. "I
suppose you have been living a very different life in London?"

"It is a great change," he replies, "from the bustle of fashion to the
unbroken quiet. But I must own I didn't enjoy so completely all the
beauty of this glad country scene till you came, Eleanor, happy in the
rich possession of youth and lightheartedness."

Now his conversation grows interesting, the perfect smile with which
she is naturally blessed creeps through her lips to her eyes,
illuminating her whole countenance. In the distance the regular click
of a reaping machine falls on the breeze.

"You must see more of our life," she says impetuously. "Next week all
our labourers will be reaping, and our barns are ready for the first
loads of harvest. Do not go till it is gathered in!"

"Shall I promise? Would it give you pleasure?"

"Yes."

A pause, during which an old horse puts his nose over the gate of an
adjacent field, regarding Philip and Eleanor complacently.

"Then it's a bargain! If _you_ will be pleased, I will stay; but not
unless."

A little gasp escapes her lips.

"Can you doubt it, Philip?" she murmurs.

He is satisfied by the earnest tone, gratified by her humility and
undisguised devotion.

"Would you like to see my home?" she asks, for their steps are nearing
the quaint farmhouse.

"Indeed, I should."

She takes him from the sloping cornfield, topped by a windmill, to
where the path joins a kitchen garden--a perfect holiday ground for
bees. The vegetables seem in perfect harmony with yellow marigolds and
calceolaria. The house is divided from the road by palings richly
covered by Virginia creepers, and as they approach Philip pauses to
lean on the wicket gate and view the peaceful homestead silently. The
drone of bees and busy presence of insect toil is soothing and
melodious. He takes Eleanor's hand and kisses it in the full glare of
the mid-day sun under the heavily laden fruit trees. Then they pass by
the brilliant flower-beds to the rustic porch, through which is visible
the Grebbys' twelve o'clock repast spread on a clean white linen cloth,
a vase of wild flowers