“You mean it?” he said.

Breathlessly she answered him.  “Yes, I mean it.”

“Then”—­he bent his great head to her, and for the fraction of a moment she saw the meteor-like flash of his smile—­“yes, I’ll teach you, Columbine,” he said.

With the words he kissed her on the lips, kissed her closely, kissed her lingeringly, and in that kiss her torn heart found its first balm of healing.

* * *

“Well, what did I say?” crowed Adam a little later.  “Didn’t I tell you if you left ’em alone he’d steer her safe into harbour?  Wasn’t I right, missus?  Wasn’t I right?”

“I’m not gainsaying it,” said Mrs. Peck, with a touch of severity.  “And I’m sure I hope as all will turn out for the best.”

“Turn out for the best?  Why, o’ course it will!” said Adam, with cheery confidence.  “My son Rufus he may be slow, but he’s no fool.  And he’s a good man, too, missus, a long sight better than that curly-topped chap.  Him and me’s partners, so I ought to know.”

“To be sure you ought,” said Mrs. Peck tolerantly.  “And it’s to be hoped that Columbine knows it as well.”

And in the solitude of her own room Columbine bent her dainty head and kissed with reverence the little wild white roses that spoke to her of the purity of a good man’s love.

* * * * *

THE MAGIC CIRCLE

The persistent chirping of a sparrow made it almost harder to bear.  Lady Brooke finally rose abruptly from the table, her black brows drawn close together, and swept to the window to scare the intruder away.

“I really have not the smallest idea what your objections can be,” she observed, pausing with her back to the room.

“A little exercise of your imagination might be of some assistance to you,” returned her husband dryly, not troubling to raise his eyes from his paper.

He was leaning back in a chair in an attitude of unstudied ease.  It was characteristic of Sir Roland Brooke to make himself physically comfortable at least, whatever his mental atmosphere.  He seldom raised his voice, and never swore.  Yet there was about him a certain amount of force that made itself felt more by his silence than his speech.

His young wife, though she shrugged her shoulders and looked contemptuous, did not venture upon open defiance.

“I am to decline the invitation, then?” she asked presently, without turning.

“Certainly!” Sir Roland again made leisurely reply as he scanned the page before him.

“And give as an excuse that you are too staunch a Tory to approve of such an innovation as the waltz?”

“You may give any excuse that you consider suitable,” he returned with unruffled composure.

“I know of none,” she answered, with a quick vehemence that trembled on the edge of rebellion.

Sir Roland turned very slowly in his chair and regarded the delicate outline of his wife’s figure against the window-frame.