“We must have Bach’s ‘Heart ever faithful,’” said Canon Wilton strongly, when Rosamund, after much singing, was about to get up from the piano.

Almost joyfully she obeyed his smiling command.  When at last she shut the piano she said to Father Robertson: 

“That’s Dion’s—­my husband’s—­best-loved melody.”

“I should like to know your husband,” said Father Robertson.

“You must, when he comes back.”

“You have no idea, I suppose, how long he will be away?”

“No, nor has he.”

“Then what are you going to do about Mrs. Browning’s house?” said the Canon’s bass.

“Oh—­well——­”

Two lines appeared in her forehead.

“I thought of taking it for six months, and then I can see.  My little house in Westminster is let for six months from the first of March.”  She had turned to Father Robertson:  “I’m only afraid——­” She paused.  She looked almost disturbed.

“What are you afraid of?” asked Canon Wilton.

“I’m afraid of getting too fond of Welsley.”

The Canon looked across at Father Robertson on the other side of the fireplace.

* * * * *

Rosamund went back to Robin and London on the following afternoon.  In the morning she took Father Robertson to see Mrs. Browning’s house.  Canon Wilton was busy.  After the morning service in the Cathedral he had to go to a meeting of the Chapter, and later on to a meeting in the City about something connected with education.

“I shall be in bonds till lunch,” he said, “unless I burst them, as I’m afraid I sometimes feel inclined to do when people talk at great length on subjects they know nothing about.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Leith will kindly take me to see her house and garden,” observed Father Robertson.

Rosamund was frankly delighted.

“Bless you for calling them mine!” she said.  “That’s just what I’m longing to do.”

The wind and the rain were till hanging about in a fashion rather undecided.  It was a morning of gusts and of showers.  The rooks swayed in the elm tops, or flew up under the scudding clouds of a treacherous sky.  There was a strong smell of damp earth, and the turf of the wide spreading lawns looked spongy.

“Oh, how English this is!” said Rosamund enthusiastically to the Father as they set forth together.  “It’s like the smell of the soul of England.  I love it.  I should like to lie on the grass and feel the rain on my face.”

“You know nothing of rheumatism evidently,” said Father Robertson, in a voice that was smiling.

“No, but I suppose I should if I gave way to my impulse.  And the rooks would be shocked.”

“Do you mean the Cathedral dignitaries?”

They were gently gay as they walked along, but very soon Rosamund, in her very human but wholly unconscious way, put her hand on Father Robertson’s arm.

“There it is!”