A week had passed.  Mrs. Friend at ten o’clock in the morning had just been having a heart to heart talk with the landlady of the inn on the subject of a decent luncheon for three persons, and a passable dinner for four.  Food at the inn was neither good nor well-cooked, and as criticism, even the mildest, generally led to tears, Mrs. Friend’s morning lot, when any guest was expected, was not a happy one.  It was a difficult thing indeed to get anything said or settled at all; since the five-year old Bobby was generally scrimmaging round, capturing his mother’s broom and threatening to “sweep out” Mrs. Friend, or brandishing the meat-chopper, as a still more drastic means of dislodging her.  The little villain, having failed to drown himself, was now inclined to play tricks with his small sister, aged eight weeks; and had only that morning, while his mother’s back was turned, taken the baby out of her cradle, run down a steep staircase with her in his arms, and laid her on a kitchen chair, forgetting all about her a minute afterwards.  Even a fond mother had been provoked to smacking, and the inn had been filled with howls and roarings, which deadened even the thunder of the swollen stream outside.  Then Helena, her fingers in her ears, had made a violent descent upon the kitchen, and carried off the “limb” to the river, where, being given something to do in the shape of damming up a brook that ran into the main stream, he had suddenly developed angelic qualities, and tied himself to Helena’s skirts.

There they both were, on the river’s pebbly bank, within hail, Helena in a short white skirt with a green jersey and cap.  She was alternately helping Bobby to build the dam, and lying with her hands beneath her head, under the shelter of the bank.  Moderately fine weather had returned, and the Welsh farmer had once more begun to hope that after all he might get in his oats.  The morning sun sparkled on the river, on the freshly washed oak-woods, and on Bobby’s bare curly head, as he sat busily playing beside Helena.

What was Helena thinking of?  Lucy Friend would have given a good deal to know.  On the little table before Lucy lay two telegrams:  one signed “Geoffrey” announced that he would reach Bettws station by twelve, and the “Fisherman’s Rest” about half an hour later.  The other announced the arrival of Lord Buntingford by the evening train.  Lord Buntingford’s visit had been arranged two or three days before; and Mrs. Friend wished it well over.  He was of course coming to talk about plans with his ward, who had now wasted the greater part of the London season in this primitive corner of Wales.  And both he and Geoffrey were leaving historic scenes behind them in order to spend these few hours with Helena.  For this was Peace Day, when the victorious generals and troops of the Empire, and the Empire’s allies, were to salute England’s king amid the multitudes of London, in solemn and visible proof that the long nightmare