month or two, Milly," he said, as cheerfully as he could.

Lady Thomson explained.

"What you want is a complete change; though I don't know what people
mean when they talk about 'domestic cares.' I should like to have you up
at Clewes for the rest of the Long. Ian can look after the baby."

Milly smiled at her sweetly, but rather as though she were talking
nonsense.

"It's very kind of you, Aunt Beatrice, but Ian and I have never been
parted for a day since we were married; I mean not when--and I don't
feel as though I could spare a minute of his company. And poor Baby,
too! Oh no! But of course it's very good of you to think of it."

"Then you must all come to Clewes," decided Aunt Beatrice, after some
remonstrance. "That'll settle it."

"But my work!" ejaculated Ian in dismay. "How am I to get on at Clewes,
away from the libraries?"

"There are some things in life more important than books, Ian," returned
Lady Thomson.

"But it won't do a penn'orth of good," broke in Tims, argumentatively.
"I don't pretend to have more than a working hypothesis, but whoever
else may prove to be right, Lady Thomson's on the wrong line."

Lady Thomson surveyed her in silence; Ian took no notice of her remark.
He was looking before him with a sadness incomprehensible to the
uncreative man--to the man who has never dreamed dreams and seen
visions; with the sadness of one who just as the cloudy emanations of
his mind are beginning to take form and substance sees them scattered,
perhaps never again to reunite, by some cold breath from the relentless
outside world of circumstance. He made his renunciation in silence;
then, with a quiet smile, he turned to Lady Thomson and answered her.

"You're very kind, Aunt Beatrice, and quite right. There are things in
life much more important than books."

CHAPTER XXI

So the summer went by; a hot summer, passed brightly enough to all
appearance in the spacious rooms and gardens of Clewes and in
expeditions among the neighboring fells. But to Ian it seemed rather an
anxious pause in life. His work was at a stand-still, yet whatever the
optimistic Aunt Beatrice might affirm, he could not feel that the shadow
was lifting from his wife's mind. To others she appeared cheerful in the
quiet, serious way that had always been hers, but he saw that her whole
attitude towards life, especially in her wistful, yearning tenderness
towards himself and Tony, was that of a woman who feels the st