at the quiet old faces. Would Anthony and
I come to be like that? So interested in the chance of a card, so
content to sit quietly in a chimney-corner? I could not believe it of
Anthony. He would be always like a sword, like a flame.

I went and came now to Brosna as one who had a right. I would come in
upon Terence Murphy scrubbing a floor or polishing silver or some such
thing, and he would look up as my shadow fell on him.

"Any news, Miss Bawn?"

"None, Terence, not yet."

"Ah, well; sure, it's on its way. There's nothing like being ready in
time."

Day after day now he lit the fires in Anthony's rooms. Day after day I
went across and gathered the little lavender primulas, the faint, garden
primroses, the crocuses and violets and wall-flowers, and filled bowls
and vases with them. I believe Terence Murphy used to wait up till the
small hours, lest by chance his master should come unannounced. Always
the house stood ready for him, like our hearts. I knew Anthony's
faithful servant loved him like a dog, and it endeared him to me.
Through February our waiting prolonged itself.

The 28th of February was a day of balmy airs. There was a light mist on
the grass, and as you walked it was through a silver web of gossamers.
Gossamers hung on every briarbush and floated about the fields. The
raindrops of last night jewelled them in the rays of the sun. Dido and I
broke whole silver forests on our morning walk to Brosna.

I remember that the blackbird was singing deliciously, yet less
poignantly sweet than he should sing at dusk. There was a mysterious
stir and flutter of spring in all the coppices. A quiet south wind
marshalled the pearly clouds before it as though it were a shepherd
driving a flock to the fold.

As I entered Brosna by the garden-way I noticed that Terence had run up
the Irish flag on the flagstaff which he had placed on the little lawn
outside Anthony's rooms, and I remembered that it was the anniversary of
a battle in which my Anthony had covered himself with glory.

In the sheltered garden it was very warm. The sun drew out the aromatic
odours from the hedges and borders of box. Terence had been polishing up
the dial. It winked in the sun, and as I passed I stopped to read the
inscription--

"I count only the golden hours."

There was no stir of Terence about. Usually one heard him singing or
whistling or shouting half a mile away. I saw to my vases. I looked into
the room which Antho