elf the most delicious refreshment. All at
once Raeburn ordered the driver to stop and, getting out, stooped down
by the roadside.

"What is it?" asked Erica.

"Heather!" he exclaimed, tearing it up by handfuls and returning to the
carriage laden. "There! Shut your eyes and bury your face in that,
and you can almost fancy you're on a Scottish mountain. Brian deserves
anything for sending us to the land of heather; it makes me feel like a
boy again."

The three miles were all too short to please them, but at last
they reached the little village of Milford and were set down at a
compact-looking white house known as Under the Oak.

"That direction is charming," said Raeburn, laughing; "imagine your
business letters sent from the 'Daily Review' office to 'Miss Raeburn,
Under the Oak, Milford!' They'll think we're living in a tent. You'll be
nicknamed Deborah!"

It was not until the next morning that they fully understood the
appropriateness of the direction. The little white house had been built
close to the grand old oak which was the pride of Milford. It was indeed
a giant of its kind; there was something wonderfully fine about its
vigorous spread of branches and its enormous girth. Close by was a
peaceful-looking river, flowing between green banks fringed with willow
and marestail and pink river-herb. The house itself had a nice little
garden, gay with geraniums and gladiolus, and bounded by a hedge of
sunflowers which would have gladdened the heart of an aesthete. All was
pure, fresh, cleanly, and perfectly quiet.

From the windows nothing was to be seen except the village green with
its flocks of geese and its tall sign post; the river describing a sort
of horseshoe curve round it, and spanned by two picturesque bridges.
In the distance was a small church and a little cluster of houses, the
"village" being completed by a blacksmith's forge and a post office. To
this latter place they had to pay a speedy visit for, much to Raeburn's
amusement, Erica had forgotten to bring any ink.

"To think that a writer in the 'Daily Review' should forget such a
necessary of life!" he said, smiling. "One would think you were your
little 'Cartesian-well' cousin instead of a journalist!"

However, the post office was capable of supplying almost anything likely
to be needed in the depths of the country; you could purchase there
bread, cakes, groceries, hob-nailed boots, paper, ink, and most
delectable toffee!

The relief of t