Max would not be out for another hour, I thought, but all the same I might as well take advantage of the morning freshness:  so I summoned Chatty to let me out as noiselessly as possible, and then I stole through the shrubberies, breaking a silver-spangled cobweb or two and feeling the wet beads of dew on my face.

I walked slowly down the road, drinking deep draughts of the pure morning air.  I had some thoughts of sitting down in the churchyard until I saw some sign of life in the vicarage; but as I turned the corner I heard a gate swing back on its hinges, and there was Max standing bareheaded in the road, as though he had come out to reconnoitre; but directly he caught sight of me two or three strides seemed to bring him to my side.

‘Have you brought it?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘Yes, Max.’  And I put the letter in his outstretched hand; and then, without looking at him, I turned quietly and retraced my steps.  I would not wait with him while he read it; he should be alone, with only the sunshine round him and the birds singing their joyous melodies in his ear.  No doubt he would join his Te Deum with theirs.  Happy Max, who had won his Lady of Delight!

But I had not quite crossed the green when I heard his footsteps behind me, and turned to meet him.

’Ursula, you naughty child! why have you run away without waiting to congratulate me?  And yet I’ll be bound you knew the contents of this letter.’

‘Yes, Max, and from my heart I wish you and Gladys every happiness.’

‘Good little Ursula!  Oh yes, we shall be happy.’  And the satisfaction in Max’s brown eyes was pleasant to see.  ’She will need all the care and tenderness that I can give her.  We must make her forget all these sad years.  Do you think that she will be content at the old vicarage, Ursula?’ But as he asked the question there was no doubt—­no doubt at all—­on his face.

’I think she will be content anywhere with you, Max.  Gladys loves you dearly.’

‘Ah,’ he said humbly, ’I know it now, I am sure of it; but I wish I deserved my blessing.  All these years I have known her goodness.  She used to show me all that was in her heart with the simplicity of a child.  Such sweet frankness! such noble unselfishness! was it a wonder that I loved her?  If I were only more worthy to be her husband!’

I liked Max to say this:  there was nothing unmanly or strained in this humility.  The man who loves can never think himself worthy of the woman he worships:  his very affection casts a glamour over her.  When I told Max that I thought his wife would be a happy woman, he only smiled and said that he hoped so too.  He had not the faintest idea what a hero he was in our eyes; he would not have believed me if I had told him.

Max said very little to me after that:  happiness made him reticent.  Only, just as he was leaving me, I said carelessly, ’Max, do you ever go to Pemberley?’