“So the doctor said this morning.”

“I think she’s beginning to remember.  She looks strangely at me.”

“If she does remember, she’ll want you still!”

Jacqueline shook her head.  “I think not.  How lovely it is, this afternoon!  The asters are all in bloom in the garden, and the gum tree is turning red.”  She threw a gauze scarf over her head.  “I am going down to the old gate by the narrow road.”

“I wish,” said Unity, “that I had the ordering of the universe for just one hour!  Then Christians would become Christian, and you wouldn’t have to meet your husband outside the gates of home.”

The other laughed a little.  “Oh, Unity, Christians won’t be Christian, and even as it is, ’tis sweet to be at home!  Until you go away to Greenwood, you’ll not know how dear was Fontenoy!  To hear the poplars rustling and to smell the box again—­Is it not strange that I should have a light heart when they look so cold upon me?”

“I have hopes of Uncle Dick, but Uncle Edward”—­Unity shook her head.  “I don’t understand Uncle Edward.”

“I do,” answered Jacqueline, “and I love him most.  I’ll go now and leave you to the Last Minstrel.  Does Fairfax Cary come to-night?”

“He may—­”

Jacqueline laughed. “‘He may.’  Yes, indeed, I think he may!  Oh, Unity, smell the roses, and look at the light upon the mountains!  Good-bye!  I’m for Lewis now.”

She passed down the steps and through the garden toward the cedar wood which led to the old gate on the narrow road.  Unity heard her singing as she went.  The voice died in the distance.  A door opened, Uncle Edward’s step was heard in the hall, and his voice, harsh and strange, came out to his niece upon the porch:  “Unity, I want you in the library a moment.”

Jacqueline kept her tryst with Rand under the great oak that stood without the old gate, on land that was not the Churchills’.  It was their custom to walk a little way into the wood that lay hard by, but this afternoon the narrow road, grass-grown and seldom used, was all their own.  They sat upon the wayside, beneath the tree, and Selim grazed beside them.  There was her full report of all that concerned them both, and there was what he chose to tell her.  They talked of Fontenoy, and then of Roselands—­talked freely and with clasped hands.  Her head rested on his shoulder; they sat in deep accord, bathed by the golden light of the afternoon; sometimes they were silent for minutes at a time, while the light grew fairer on the hills.  When an hour had passed they rose and kissed, and he watched her across the road and through the gate into the circle of Fontenoy.  She turned, and waited to see him mount Selim and ride away.  He spoke from the saddle, “At the same hour to-morrow,” and she answered, “The same hour.”  Her hands were clasped upon the top-most bar of the gate.  He wheeled Selim, crossed the road, half swung himself from the saddle, and pressed his lips upon them.  “Come home soon!” he said, and she answered, “Soon.”