“In a minute.  I must find my horse.  He is in here somewhere.  Tell me how the colonel is feeling, and Mrs. Maynard.”

“Both very nervous and worried, though I see nothing extraordinary in the adventure.  We read of poor hungry tramps everywhere, and they rarely do harm.”

“I wonder a little at your venturing here in the wood-paths, after what occurred last night.”

“Why, Captain Armitage, no one would harm me here, so close to the church.  Indeed, I never thought of such a thing until you mentioned it.  Did you discover anything about the man?”

“Nothing definite; but I must be at the station again to meet the up-train, and have to see the colonel meantime.  Let me find Dobbin, or whatever they call this venerable relic I’m riding, and then I’ll escort you home.”

But Dobbin had strayed deeper into the wood.  It was some minutes before the captain could find and catch him.  The rich melody of sacred music was again thrilling through the perfumed woods, the glad sunshine was pouring its warmth and blessing over all the earth, glinting on bluff and brake and palisaded cliff, the birds were all singing their rivalling psaltery, and Nature seemed pouring forth its homage to the Creator and Preserver of all on this His holy day, when Frank Armitage once more reached the bowered lane where, fairest, sweetest sight of all, his lady stood waiting him.  She turned to him as she heard the hoof-beat on the turf, and smiled.

“Can we wait and hear that hymn through?”

“Ay.  Sing it.”

She looked suddenly in his face.  Something in the very tone in which he spoke startled her,—­something deeper, more fervent, than she had ever heard before,—­and the expression in the steady, deep-blue eyes was another revelation.  Alice Renwick had a woman’s intuition, and yet she had not known this man a day.  The color again mounted to her temples, and her eyes fell after one quick glance.

“I heard you joining in the Te Deum,” he urged.  “Sing once more:  I love it.  There, they are just beginning again.  Do you know the words?”

She nodded, then raised her head, and her glad young voice carolled through the listening woods: 

  “Holy, holy, holy!  All
    Heaven’s triumphant choir shall sing,
  When the ransomed nations fall
    At the footstool of their King: 
  Then shall saints and seraphim,
  Hearts and voices, swell one hymn
  Round the throne with full accord,
  Holy, holy, holy Lord!”

There was silence when the music ceased.  She had turned her face towards the church, and, as the melody died away in one prolonged, triumphant chord, she still stood in reverent attitude, as though listening for the words of benediction.  He, too, was silent, but his eyes were fixed on her.  He was thirty-five, she not twenty.  He had lived his soldier life wifeless, but, like other soldiers, his heart had had its rubs and aches in the days gone by.  Years