In their rides and talks together he would relate to his father the story of his campaign, describe to him the brilliant exploits of the great Duke, whom he had seen in his most magnificent hours, as only those who fought by his side had seen him; but with her Grace he did not dwell upon such things, knowing she would not be the happier for hearing of them.  With her he would walk through the park, sauntering down the avenue beneath the oak-trees, or over the green sward to visit the deer, who knew the sound of her sweet voice, it seemed, and hearing it as she approached would lift their delicate heads and come towards her to be caressed and fed, welcoming her with the dewy lustrousness of their big timorous dark eyes, even the shyest does and little fawns nibbling from her fair and gentle hand, and following her softly a few paces when she turned away.  Together she and Roxholm would wander through all the dear places he had loved in his childish years—­into the rose gardens, which were a riot of beauty and marvellous colours and the pride and joy of the head gardener, who lived for and among them, as indeed they were the pride of those who worked under his command, not a man or boy of them knowing any such pleasure as to see her Grace walk through their labyrinths of bloom with my lord Marquess, each of them rejoicing in the loveliness on every side and gathering the fairest blossoms as they went, until sometimes they carried away with them rich sheaves of crimson and pink and white and yellow.  They loved the high-walled kitchen garden, too, and often visited it, spreading delight there among its gardeners by praising its fine growths, plucking the fruit and gathering nosegays of the old-fashioned flowers which bordered the beds of sober vegetables—­sweet peas and Canterbury bells, wall-flowers, sweetwilliams, yellow musk, and pansies, making, her Grace said, the prettiest nosegay in the world.  Then they would loiter through the village and make visits to old men and women sitting in the sun, to young mothers with babies in their arms and little mites playing about their feet.

“And you never enter a cottage door, mother,” said Roxholm in his young manhood’s pride and joy in her, “but it seems that the sun begins to shine through the little window, and if there is a caged bird hanging there it begins to twitter and sing.  I cannot find a lady like you”—­bending his knee and kissing her white fingers in gay caress.  “Indeed, if I could I should bring her home to you to Camylott—­and old Rowe might ring his bells until he lost his breath.”

“Do you know,” she answered, “what your father said to me the first morning I lay in my bed with you in my arm—­old Rowe was ringing the bells as if he would go wild.  I remember the joyful pealing of them as it floated across the park to come through my open window.  We were so proud and full of happiness, and thought you so beautiful—­and you are, Gerald, yet; so you are yet,” with the prettiest smile, “and your father said of you, ’He will grow to be a noble gentleman and wed a noble lady; and they will be as we have been—­as we have been, beloved,’ and we kissed each other with blissful tears in our eyes, and you moved in my arm, and there was a tiny, new-born smile on your little face.”