“It is Jack,” said Maurice; and sure enough that individual presently appeared and dropped down beside them, breathless from his run up the hill.

“What are you two doing?” he puffed.

“Talking.  How warm you are!” and Rosalind offered her broad-brimmed hat for a fan.  “Have you seen anything of Katharine?”

“She and Belle are on the way.  Say, what were you talking about?  It seemed to be interesting.”  Jack rolled over on his back and blinked at the sky.

Rosalind looked at Maurice.  “Would you tell him?”

“No,” was the prompt reply, “he wouldn’t care for it.”  He felt certain harum-scarum Jack would only be bored by the Forest, perhaps would make fun.

Jack turned his face to Rosalind, “Tell me,” he urged; “Maurice doesn’t know what I like.”

“I will, then, as soon as the girls come.”

It was not long before Belle was heard calling, and she and Katherine came running across the grass and joined the group under the tree.

“We are waiting for you; Jack wants to hear about the Forest,” said Rosalind.

“Yes, you promised to tell us what you meant, and how Morgan came to know about it.”  Belle cast her hat on the grass and shook back her hair.

Maurice looked discontented.  Jack and Belle would think it silly, and Katherine wouldn’t understand.

“Maurice knows about it, and perhaps some of the rest of you have read the story of the Forest of Arden,” began Rosalind.

Belle had, but Katherine and Jack had not so much as heard of it, so Rosalind told the story of the banished Duke and his followers who lived in the Forest, and were happy because they had learned to make the best of things and to find good even in trouble and disappointment; how Rosalind, the daughter of the Duke, was also banished, and with her cousin and the clown went to seek her father in the Forest; how Orlando, turned out of his home by his cruel elder brother, also went to the Forest in company with his old servant Adam; of their adventures there; and how finally the wicked Duke and the heartless brother, who were pursuing the runaways, came under the spell of the same Forest and repented of their evil deeds; and the story ended in forgiveness and love under the greenwood tree.

It was just the day and place for the story.  The joyous, lavish beauty of summer was everywhere around them, and as Rosalind told it her eyes took on the look Belle had described to her father.  There was silence after she finished.  Jack lay with his head on his arms, looking out on the river; Maurice was drawing beech leaves in his note-book, the discontent all gone from his face; Belle absently plaited the hem of her dress; while Katherine twisted a wreath of honeysuckle around her hat.

“Is that all?” Belle asked, after a little.

“That is the story; then I was telling Maurice about the meaning Cousin Louis found in it.”