ton that Henry had
engaged to spend more than an hour or two at the Wintons, and the
drawing-room conversation seeming to flag a little after dinner, Flo
suggested a walk. The weather was alluring, and Laysford on an autumn
day is one of the most lovable towns in England. Henry was nothing loth,
and for the sake of appearance, Edgar was included; but before they had
reached the green banks of the River Lays the obliging fellow had
suddenly remembered an appointment with a friend who lived in an
opposite direction, and Flo and Henry were bereft of his company for the
remainder of the walk, which now lay along the grove of elms by the
river-side.

"It's really too bad of Edgar," said Flo, with a fine show of
indignation when he had gone. "One can't depend on him for five minutes
at a time; he's always rushing away like that."

"Never mind," replied Mr. Henry Innocent, glancing at his companion in a
way that showed the situation was by no means disagreeable to him. "He
will very likely be home before we get back."

"But I am afraid you will find me dull company," she said, although
shining eyes and an arch smile gave flat contradiction to the words.

"I don't think you need be afraid of that."

"Really! Why?"

"Because you must know it is not the case."

Thus and thus, as in the past, now, and always, your loving couples. The
gabble-gabble reads tame in print, and we will listen no further. Let
them have their fill of it; their giggles, their tiffs if they may; why
should the stuff be written down? But this must be said: Flo had reason
to believe that the affair of her heart was making progress. She thought
that Henry was coming out of his shell, and the process was of deep
interest to her.

Edgar had not returned when the couple reached home, and he was absent
from the tea-table. The day had been rich indeed to Flo, and Henry was
almost in as high spirits as his companion. When the evening bells
pealed out for church he still dawdled in the undevotional atmosphere of
the Wintons' drawing-room. Yet even for him they did not ring in vain.
At their sweet sound the shutter of forgetfulness was raised from his
mind, and he saw again a tiny country church perched on a green hill; a
ragged file of homely folk trailing up the path and through the
lych-gate, familiar faces all in the long-ago; and from the vicarage,
with failing step, the grey-haired pastor of the flock, and by the old
man's side the figure of a sweet wo