l flood of
joy flows over him. A radiant smile parts his lips. The light of a
coming triumph that shall gird and glorify his whole life illumines his
eyes.

She regarding him grows suddenly uneasy.

"You--you fully understand," says she, drawing back from him.

"Oh, you have made me do that," says he, but his radiant smile still
lingers.

"Then why," mistrustfully, "do you look so happy?" She draws even
further away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness.

"Is there not reason?" says he. "Have you not let me speak, and having
spoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I dared
hope for! Therefore, poor as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbid
me. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have my
day."

"It grows very late," says Miss Kavanagh abruptly. "Let us go home."

Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down he pauses and
looks backward.

"Whatever comes of it," says he, "I shall always love this spot. Though,
if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again."

"It is unlucky to rejoice too soon," says she, in a low whisper.

"Oh! don't say that word 'Rejoice.' How it reminds me of you. It ought
to belong to you. It does. You should have been called 'Rejoice' instead
of 'Joyce'; they have cut off half your name. To see you is to feel new
life within one's veins."

"Ah! I said you didn't know me," returns she sadly.

* * * * *

Meantime the hours have flown; evening is descending. It is all very
well for those who, traveling up and down romantic hills, can find
engrossing matters for conversation in their idle imaginings of love, or
their earnest belief therein, but to the ordinary ones of the earth,
mundane comforts are still of some worth.

Tea, the all powerful, is now holding high revelry in the library at the
Court. Round the cosy tables, growing genial beneath the steam of the
many old Queen Anne "pots," the guests are sitting singly or in groups.

"What delicious little cakes!" says Lady Swansdown, taking up a smoking
morsel of cooked butter and flour from the glowing tripod beside her.

"You like them?" says Lady Baltimore in her slow, earnest way. "So does
Joyce. She thinks they are the nicest cakes in the world. By the by,
where is Joyce?"

"She went out for a walk at twenty minutes after two," says Beauclerk.
He has pulled out his watch and is steadily consulting it.