ental order which found favour in the early
eighties, Philippa's eye was arrested by some words which seemed to her
familiar. They were the ones Francis had quoted at their first
meeting. He had spoken of a song Phil had been in the habit of
singing, which seemed to him written for them. She tried it through.
The tune had a certain happy charm which once heard might easily linger
in the memory after the music was hushed. The words were these:--

"My heart met yours, when spring was all awaking,
Down in the valley where the violets bloom;
Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking,
Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom.

Your heart met mine, and all the birds were singing,
Singing for joy that winter's day was done;
On every side the harebells pale were ringing
A bridal peal for joy--our hearts were one.

Our hearts are one, and nothing can dissever
The chain that binds us close; come good or ill,
The golden radiance floods life's pathway ever,
The scent of violets lingers round us still."

How many years was it since the simple words had been sung in that
house, and the notes of the old piano sounded to the lilting cadence of
its melody? And now, of the two who had sung it together, one was
gone, and the other--well, for the other some of the golden radiance
still shone after all the bitter years fate had meted out; and the
scent of the violets lingered still.

Philippa dropped her face until it touched the faded bunch upon her
breast. What is there about the scent of violets that always conjures
up thoughts of the past? They have beyond the scent of all other
flowers a power of memory. The scent of roses tells of long summer
days, of dreams soft and tender as light summer airs; lilies speak of
love and of love's crown; but it is violets that help us to regret.

CHAPTER XII

PROGRESS

"The days are made on a loom whereof the warp and woof are past and
future time."--EMERSON.

The improvement in Francis Heathcote's condition in the days which
followed was, so the doctor and nurses declared, phenomenal. Robert
Gale ceased to tug at his beard in angry perplexity, and melted into
something which might almost have been called jocularity, as he watched
the man gaining in health and strength. "Splendid! Splendid!" he
would say, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Go on as you
are going, and you'll see the last of me soon."

And