't it a
lovely green?"

"I'm going away."

She raised her head, and two violet eyes, with a puzzled expression,
were dreamily fixed upon him, half-questioning.

"Going away! Where to?... Oh, there, I've lost it!" as the caterpillar
fell among the grass.

"To Stratford first," Henry answered in a lordly way;
"afterwards--London, I daresay."

Eunice was profoundly impressed. London! Wasn't that a risky
undertaking? She knew it to be a wonderful place when one got there, but
had heard it was crowded with people who did terrible things. Mr. Jukes,
the landlord of the "Wings and Spur," had been to London on some law
business not long ago, and could talk of nothing else since. Indeed,
Edward John Charles had felt Mr. Jukes's rivalry very keenly; for the
innkeeper's visit being of later date than his, the glory of it was
fresher to the Hampton mind.

Henry, conscious that he had taken her breath away, gathered up his
knees and fell to dreaming of London. The shadows of evening crept
softly upon them as they sat there; the trees on the high ground behind
them rustled gently in the light summer breeze; and somehow, the whole
scene--the sloping meadow, the darkening hedgerows, the shadowy outline
of the country beyond--mingled strangely with his dreams of the future.
Years afterwards, when the quiet, peaceful life of Hampton was a dear
thing of the past to him, the scent of new-mown hay recreated that
evening in every detail, and he saw again the rose-flushed lass who had
sat in silent wonder by his side.

Mr. Charles was of opinion that the sooner his son was started on his
upward course the better. Henry, therefore, was withdrawn from school,
and immediate preparations made for his departure--preparations in which
Edward John took no manual part, but which, judging by the poise of his
coat-tails, went forward to his mind. Mrs. Charles even forgot to take
the curl-papers out of her hair for two whole days before the eventful
morning.

On the eve of the day appointed for Henry's departure Mr. Page called in
to wish him good-bye. A little later the vicar flashed for a moment into
the dingy interior of the shop and shook hands with him.

"Remember, my dear Henry, _labor omnia vincit improbus_, as the
Latinists say," using one of his few but favourite Latin phrases, and
rolling it lovingly like a chocolate-cream 'twixt tongue and palate.
"And remember also, my dear Henry, that _les bellesactions cachees
sont les plus es