“You remember that first day?” said Maud.  “I had felt that day as if some one was coming to me from a long way off drawing nearer. . . .  I saw you drive up in the carriage, and I wondered if we should be friends.”

“Yes,” said Howard, “it was you on the lawn—­that was when I saw you first!”

“And now we must go back and face the music,” said Howard.  “What do you think?  How shall we make it all known?  I shall tell Aunt Anne to-night.  I shall be glad to do that, because there has fallen a veil between us.  Don’t forget, dear child, how unutterably wretched and intolerable I have been.  She tried to help me out, but I was running with my head down on the wrong track.  Oh, what a miserable fool I was!  That comes of being so high-minded and superior.  If you only knew how solemn I have been!  Why couldn’t I just speak?”

“You might have spoken any time,” said Maud.  “Why, I would have walked barefoot to Dorchester and back to please you!  It does seem horrible to think of our being apart all that time, out of such beautiful consideration—­and you were my own, my very own all the time, every moment.”

“I will come and tell your father to-morrow,” said Howard presently.  “How will Master Jack take it?  Will he call you Miss?”

“He may call me what he likes,” said Maud.  “I shan’t get off easily.”

“Well, we have an evening and a night and a morning for our secret,” said Howard.  “I wish it could be longer.  I should like to go on for ever like this, no one knowing but you and me.”

“Do just as you like, my lord and master,” said Maud.

“I won’t have you talk like that,” said Howard; “you don’t know what you give me.  Was ever anyone in the world so happy before?”

“There’s one person who is as happy,” said Maud; “you can’t guess what I feel.  Does it sound absurd to say that if you told me to stand still while you cut me into little bits, I should enjoy it?”

“I won’t forget that,” said Howard; “anything to please you—­you need not mind mentioning any little wishes you may have of that kind.”

They laughed like children, and when they came to the village, they became very ceremonious.  At the Vicarage gate they shook hands, and Howard raised his hat.  “You will have to make up for this dignified parting some time,” said Howard.  “Sleep well, my darling child!  If you ever wake, you will know that I am thinking of you; not far apart!  Good-night, my sweet one, my only darling.”

Maud put one hand on his shoulder, but did not speak—­and then slipped in light-footed through the gate.  Howard walked back to the Manor, through the charmed dusk and the fragrance of hidden flowers, full of an almost intolerable happiness, that was akin to pain.  The evening star hung in liquid, trembling light above the dark down, the sky fading to a delicious green, the breeze rustled in the heavy-leaved sycamores, and the lights were lit in the cottage windows.  Did every home, every hearth, he wondered, mean that?  Was that present in dim and dumb lives, the spirit of love, the inner force of the world?  Yes, it was so!  That was the secret hidden in the Heart of God.