“Will it?” said Toby rather dubiously.

Maud bent and kissed her.  “Certainly it will, dear.  Never doubt it!  It may not be the future we plan for ourselves, but it will be the very best possible if we keep on doing our best with the present.”

“Thank you,” Toby murmured gratefully.  “And you really think—­you do really think—­the past doesn’t matter?”

Maud was silent for a few moments.  The thought of Saltash was in her mind, his jesting evasions, his air of careless proprietorship.  What was the thing in this child’s past that she desired so earnestly to put away?  She wondered if she ought to ask, but she could not.

A slight terror ran through the small, supplicating figure at her knee, and quick pity banished doubt.  “I think it is entirely in our own hands, dear,” she said gently.  “The past can always be left behind if we work hard enough.”

“Oh, thank you,” Toby said again, and gathering Maud’s hands impulsively into her own she kissed them.  “I’m going to work very hard,” she said.  “You’ll help me, I know.  I’ve got to—­to leave off turning somersaults—­and learn to—­curtsey.”

She sent a shy smile into Maud’s face, and almost in spite of herself Maud answered it.  There was something oddly appealing, irresistibly attractive, about the child.  She was so young and ardent, yet so pathetically anxious to please.

“Of course I will help you,” she said.  “I will always help you, my dear.”

And Toby, emboldened, thrust warm arms about her neck, and held her close.

CHAPTER XI

THE BUTTERFLY

The perfect rose of a June sunset was slanting through the fir-woods of Burchester Park, making the red trunks glow.  At the end of a long grass ride the new moon dipped to the west, a silver boat uptilted in a green transparent sea.  A very great stillness lay upon all things—­the eventide quiet of a summer day.

The dull thudding of a horse’s hoofs along the ride scarcely seemed to break that magic silence.  A frightened rabbit scurrying to cover made no sound at all.  Somewhere a long way off a cuckoo was calling, tenderly, persistently.  Somewhere near at hand a blackbird was warbling to his mate.  But it all went into the enchanted silence, blending with the hush of the coming night.  The man who rode the horse was conscious only of the peace of his surroundings.  He doffed his cap to the moon in mock reverence, and carried it in his hand.

He came to the end of the ride and checked his animal on the brow of a steep descent.  The park lay below him wrapped in mystery.  On another slope a full mile away stood the Castle, ancient battlemented, starkly splendid, one westward-facing window burning as with fire.  He sat motionless for a space, gazing across at it, his face a curious mask of conjecture and regret.

Finally, with great suddenness, he lifted his hand and smote his horse sharply on the flank.  In a moment he was being precipitated at a headlong gallop down the hill.  He went like the wind, and the enchanted wood was left behind.