gravely,—­“I was, I say, moved by an insane desire to draw that dainty small bundle of frippery and prettiness into my arms—­yes,—­it was so, and why should I not confess it to myself?  Why should I be ashamed?  Other men have felt the same, though perhaps they do not count so many years of life as I do.  At any rate with me the feeling was momentary,—­and passed.  Then,—­some moments later,—­under the cedar-tree she dropped a rose from the cluster she had gathered,—­and in giving it back to her I touched her hand—­and our eyes met.”

Here his thoughts became disconnected, and wandered beyond his control.  He let them go,—­and listened, instead of thinking, to the notes of the nightingale singing in his garden.  It was now being answered by others at a distance, with incessant repetitions of a flute-like warble,—­and then came the long sobbing trill and cry of love, piercing the night with insistant passion.

    “The Bird of Life is singing on the bough,
     His two eternal notes of ’I and Thou’—­
     O hearken well, for soon the song sings through,
     And would we hear it, we must hear it Now.”

A faint tremor shook him as the lines quoted by Cicely Bourne rang back upon his memory.  He rose to go indoors.

“I am a fool!”—­he said—­“I must not trouble my head any more about a summer day’s fancy.  It was a kind of ‘old moonlight in the blood,’ as Hafiz says,—­an aching sense of loss,—­or rather a touch of the spring affecting a decaying tree!” He sighed.  “I shall not suffer from it again, because I will not.  Brent’s letter has arrived opportunely,—­though I think—­nay, I am sure, he has been misinformed.  However, Miss Vancourt’s affairs have nothing to do with me,—­nor need I interest myself in what is not my concern.  My business is with those who depend on my care,—­I must not forget myself—­I must attend to my work.”

He went into the house,—­and there was confronted in his own hall by a big burly figure clad in rough corduroys,—­that of Farmer Thorpe, who doffed his cap and pulled his forelock respectfully at the sight of him.

“‘Evenin’, Passon!” he said—­“I thought as ’ow I’d make bold to coom an’ tell ye my red cow’s took the turn an’ doin’ wonderful!  Seems a special mussy of th’ A’mighty, an’ if there’s anythin’ me an’ my darter can do fur ye, ye’ll let us know, Passon, for I’m darn grateful, an’ feels as ’ow the beast pulled round arter I’d spoke t’ye about ‘er.  An’ though as ye told me, ’tain’t the thing to say no prayers for beasties which is worldly goods, I makes a venture to arsk ye if ye’ll step round to the farm to-morrer, jest to please Mattie my darter, an’ take a look at the finest litter o’ pigs as ever was seen in this county, barrin’ none!  A litter as clean an’ sweet as daisies in new-mown hay, an’ now’s the time for ye to look at ’em, Passon, an’ choose yer own suckin’ beast for bilin’ or roastin’ which ye please, for both’s as good as t’other,—­an’ there ain’t no man about ‘ere what desarves a sweet suckin’ pig more’n you do, an’ that I say an’ swear to.  It’s a real prize litter I do assure you!—­an’ Mattie my darter, she be that proud, an’ all ye wants to do is just to coom along an’ choose your own!”