John paused, and looked musingly at the matronly tea-pot, as if he saw a wondrous future in its shine.

Nan twinkled off the drops that rose at the thought of Laura’s joy, and said, with grateful warmth,—­

“You say nothing of your own share in the making of that happiness, John; but we know it, for Philip has told Laura in his letters all that you have been to him, and I am sure there was other eloquence beside his own before father granted all you say he has.  Oh, John, I thank you very much for this!”

Mrs. Lord beamed a whole midsummer of delight upon her son, as she saw the pleasure these words gave him, though he answered simply,—­

“I only tried to be a brother to him, Nan; for he has been most kind to me.  Yes, I said my little say to-night, and gave my testimony in behalf of the prisoner at the bar, a most merciful judge pronounced his sentence, and he rushed straight to Mrs. Leigh’s to tell Laura the blissful news.  Just imagine the scene when he appears, and how Di will open her wicked eyes and enjoy the spectacle of the dishevelled lover, the bride-elect’s tears, the stir, and the romance of the thing.  She’ll cry over it to-night, and caricature it to-morrow.”

And John led the laugh at the picture he had conjured up, to turn the thoughts of Di’s dangerous sister from himself.

At ten Nan retired into the depths of her old bonnet with a far different face from the one she brought out of it, and John, resuming his hat, mounted guard.

“Don’t stay late, remember, John!” And in Mrs. Lord’s voice there was a warning tone that her son interpreted aright.

“I’ll not forget, mother.”

And he kept his word; for though Philip’s happiness floated temptingly before him, and the little figure at his side had never seemed so dear, he ignored the bland winds, the tender night, and set a seal upon his lips, thinking manfully within himself, “I see many signs of promise in her happy face; but I will wait and hope a little longer for her sake.”

“Where is father, Sally?” asked Nan, as that functionary appeared, blinking owlishly, but utterly repudiating the idea of sleep.

“He went down the garding, miss, when the gentlemen cleared, bein’ a little flustered by the goin’s on.  Shall I fetch him in?” asked Sally, as irreverently as if her master were a bag of meal.

“No, we will go ourselves.”  And slowly the two paced down the leaf-strewn walk.

Fields of yellow grain were waving on the hill-side, and sere corn-blades rustled in the wind, from the orchard came the scent of ripening fruit, and all the garden-plots lay ready to yield up their humble offerings to their master’s hand.  But in the silence of the night a greater Reaper had passed by, gathering in the harvest of a righteous life, and leaving only tender memories for the gleaners who had come so late.

The old man sat in the shadow of the tree his own hands planted; its fruitful boughs shone ruddily, and its leaves still whispered the low lullaby that hushed him to his rest.