as not discolored.
The Poor Boy devoted half an hour to the experiment. There was no
development.

"Not Ed Pinaud," he then said reverently, "dyed this hair, but the Lord
God."

He put it away in a safe place, just over his heart.

"Not," he said, "because it is hers, but because it is the same color.
And because there are stranger things in heaven and earth than ever any
man wotted of in his philosophy."

Martha knocked on the door.

"Come in, Martha."

"Just to tell you that it's stopped raining, and if ye'll not take oil
nor hot-water bags, the next best remedy for cobwebs in the brain is
exercise."

The Poor Boy was glad to get out.

He went straight to Lord Harrow's house and walked with Joy for
hours--up and down between the glorious roses on the terrace. The path
was wide. They could walk side by side without danger of touching each
other.

She was very grave that afternoon. So was he. It was hard that they
should love each other so much and not be allowed to talk about it or
hold hands. But the Poor Boy knew mighty well that if he touched her she
would vanish.

"There's comfort," thought the Poor Boy, "in loving a spirit--even if it
can never be quite the real thing. She will always be just as I see her
now, no older, untroubled, gentle, and dear."

[Illustration: "She will always be just as I see her now, no older,
untroubled, gentle and dear."]

He said poetry to her, and hummed songs. She dropped a rose that she was
carrying. He stooped to pick it up, remembered, and let it lie. They
looked into each other's eyes, very sadly.

He saw her mistily through tears. She vanished. Vanished the rose
garden, vanished Lord Harrow's house. And remained only a wild lake, an
open space in which he stood, and wild-woods, and beyond more woods and
hills and mountains.

To the west the forest was intolerably bright, as if it was burning. The
sun was going down.

XII

Old Martha and Joy were bending over a tremendous pile of newspapers,
cables, and telegrams that had just been brought in by special messenger
from the nearest village in the outside world.

The messenger, a rosy old man, kept explaining why he had come.

"I know it's not my day to come in and that he don't want us hangin'
about where he can see us, but the missus, she says, don't you dare to
keep back this news from him even if he shoots you down in your
tracks."

The newspapers said that the Poor Boy had been wrongfully accu