“Pretty, was it not?  Yes, but there’s prettier to come.  Felicia, who was an only child and quite an heiress in a small way, kept up from the first a steady correspondence with her ‘preserver’:  childish letters, to begin with, but Dick kept them all.  In Bombay, in Abyssinia, for a few weeks in England (when he saw her for the first time since the wreck), then back in India again, he has told me since that the world held but one woman for him, and that was the little girl growing up to womanhood in her Bedfordshire home.

“Well it all happened as you are guessing.  Dick, who had inherited a little money by this time, and was expecting his majority, returned to England in ’72 on a long furlough.  Needless to say he paid a visit to Cressingham, where Felicia lived under the wing of a widowed aunt:  equally needless to say what happened there.  The engagement was a short one—­six weeks:  and Dick flattered me immensely with an invitation to come up and perform the ceremony.”

The Vicar paused, refilled his glass, and leaning back gazed up at the now silent nests.  “All this,” thought I, “may be mighty interesting in its way, but what—­”

“But what, you’ll be asking, has all this to do with John Emmet?  I’m coming to that.  On the evening of my arrival at Cressingham, Dick, who was lodging at the village inn where I too had a room, took me over to pay my respects to the ladies.  We had taken our leave and were passing down the pretty avenue of limes to the entrance gates, when he paused and hailed a man stooping over a fountain in the Italian garden on our left, and apparently clearing it of dead leaves.

“‘Hi!  John Emmet!’

“The man straightened his back, faced round, and came towards us, touching his hat.

“’This is the gentleman, John, who has come expressly to tie the knot next Wednesday.  You must know,’ said Dick, turning to me, ’that Miss Felicia and John Emmet are sworn friends, and he owes me a mighty grudge for taking her away.  He’s been gardener here for fifteen—­sixteen—­how many years is it, John?’

“‘Then,’ said I, ’I suppose you were here before the wreck of the Nerbuddha, and knew Miss Felicia’s parents?’

“The man gave a start, and his hat, which he had pulled off, and with the brim of which he was fumbling, slipped from his fingers and rolled on the turf.

“‘Oh, yes, I forgot!’ put in Dick.  ’I ought to have told you that Mr. West here is the Rector of Lansulyan, and was at the time of the wreck.”

“‘Indeed, Sir!’ John Emmet had recovered his hat, and confronted me with a face for which I spared a glance before bending my eyes on the daisies at my feet.  ‘I—­I took service here some months after that event.’

“’Come, Padre’—­these were the next words I heard—­’if you wish to prod up all the daisies on Felicia’s property, arise early to-morrow and begin.  But if we’re to dine at the Hall to-night it’s time to be getting back to the inn and changing our clothes.’