I went and came now to Brosna as one who had a right.  I would come in upon Terence Murphy scrubbing a floor or polishing silver or some such thing, and he would look up as my shadow fell on him.

“Any news, Miss Bawn?”

“None, Terence, not yet.”

“Ah, well; sure, it’s on its way.  There’s nothing like being ready in time.”

Day after day now he lit the fires in Anthony’s rooms.  Day after day I went across and gathered the little lavender primulas, the faint, garden primroses, the crocuses and violets and wall-flowers, and filled bowls and vases with them.  I believe Terence Murphy used to wait up till the small hours, lest by chance his master should come unannounced.  Always the house stood ready for him, like our hearts.  I knew Anthony’s faithful servant loved him like a dog, and it endeared him to me.  Through February our waiting prolonged itself.

The 28th of February was a day of balmy airs.  There was a light mist on the grass, and as you walked it was through a silver web of gossamers.  Gossamers hung on every briarbush and floated about the fields.  The raindrops of last night jewelled them in the rays of the sun.  Dido and I broke whole silver forests on our morning walk to Brosna.

I remember that the blackbird was singing deliciously, yet less poignantly sweet than he should sing at dusk.  There was a mysterious stir and flutter of spring in all the coppices.  A quiet south wind marshalled the pearly clouds before it as though it were a shepherd driving a flock to the fold.

As I entered Brosna by the garden-way I noticed that Terence had run up the Irish flag on the flagstaff which he had placed on the little lawn outside Anthony’s rooms, and I remembered that it was the anniversary of a battle in which my Anthony had covered himself with glory.

In the sheltered garden it was very warm.  The sun drew out the aromatic odours from the hedges and borders of box.  Terence had been polishing up the dial.  It winked in the sun, and as I passed I stopped to read the inscription—­

        “I count only the golden hours.”

There was no stir of Terence about.  Usually one heard him singing or whistling or shouting half a mile away.  I saw to my vases.  I looked into the room which Anthony used as a dining-room when he was at home, and saw the table set, the old damask table-cloth, patched and darned by Terence himself, warmly white, the silver and glass shining.  I smiled as I noticed that two places had been set.  It was as though Terence anticipated the wonderful days to come.

Anthony’s chair was drawn in front of the fire, which had been lately attended to, for the hearth was clean, and a log of cherry-wood burning on the coals sent out a delicious fragrance.  Presently Terence would come bustling in to ask, “What news, Miss Bawn?” Sitting in the chair in front of the warm fire, full of beatific dreams, I somehow fell asleep.