Raymond had changed more than she, having developed from the youth into the man; retaining in a wonderful way the peculiar charm of his boyhood’s beauty, the ethereal purity of expression and slim grace of figure, yet adding to these the dignity and purpose of a more advanced age, and all the stateliness and power of one who has struggled and suffered and battled in the world, and who has come forth from that struggle with a stainless shield, and a name unsullied by the smallest breath of slander.

Joan’s eyes dwelt upon her husband’s face with a proud, joyous light in them.  Once she laid her hand upon his as they rode, and said, in low tones very full of feeling: 

“Methinks I have found my Galahad at last.  Methinks that thou hast found a treasure as precious as the Holy Grail itself.  Methinks no treasure could be more precious than that which thou hast won.”

He turned his eyes upon her tenderly.

“The treasure of thy love, my Joan?”

“I was not thinking of that,” she answered; “we have loved each other so long.  I was thinking of that other treasure —­ the love which has enabled thee to triumph over evil, to forgive our enemies, to do good to those that have hated us, to fight the Christian’s battle as well as that of England’s King.  I was thinking of that higher chivalry of which in old days we have talked so much.  Perchance we should give it now another name.  But thou hast been true and faithful in thy quest.  Ah, how proud I am of the stainless name of my knight!”

His fingers closed fast over hers, but he made no reply in words.  Raymond’s nature was a silent one.  Of his deepest feelings he spoke the least.  He had told his story to Joan; he knew that she understood all it meant to him.  It was happiness to feel that this was so without the need of words.  That union of soul was sweeter to him than even the possession of the hand he held in his.

And so they rode on to Basildene.

But was this Basildene?  Raymond passed his hand across his eyes, and gazed and gazed again.  Joan sat quietly in her saddle, watching him with smiling eyes.

Basildene! yes, truly Basildene.  There was the quaint old house with its many gables and mullioned casements and twisted chimneys, its warm red walls and timbered grounds around it; but where was the old look of misery, decay, neglect, and blight?  Who could look at that picturesque old mansion, with its latticed casements glistening in the sun, and think of aught but home-like comfort and peace?  What had been done to it? what spell had been at work?  This was the Basildene of his boyhood’s dreams —­ the Basildene that his mother had described to them.  It was not the Basildene of later years.  How had the change come about?