A silence fell between them,—­and soon after, Forsyth took his leave.  Walden, left alone, and deeply conscious of the new responsibility he had taken upon his life, set to work to get through his parish business for the evening, in order to have time to devote to Maryllia the next day, and, writing a long letter to Bishop Brent, he told him all the history of his late-found happiness,—­his hopes, his sorrows, his fears—­and his intention to show what a man’s true love could be to a woman whom unkind destiny had deprived of all the natural joys of living.  He added to this letter a few words referring to Forsyth’s information respecting the Italian specialist, Santori, who had been sent for to see Maryllia and pronounce on her condition—­“but I fear,” he wrote, “that there is nothing to be done, save to resign ourselves to the apparently cruel and incomprehensible will of God, which in this case has declared itself in favour of allowing the innocent to suffer.”

Next morning he awoke to find the sun shining brightly from a sky almost clear blue, save for a few scattered grey fleecy clouds,—­ and, stepping out into his garden, the first thing he noticed was a root of primroses breaking shyly into flower.  Seeing Bainton trimming the shrubbery close by, he called his attention to it.

“Spring is evidently on the way, Bainton!” he said cheerily, “We are getting past the white into the gold again!”

“Ay, Passon, that we be!” rejoined Bainton, with a smile—­“An’ please the Lord, we’ll soon get from the gold into the blue, an’ from the blue into the rose!  For that’s allus the way o’ the year,—­ first little white shaky blossoms wot’s a bit afraid of theirselves, lest the frost should nip ’em,—­and then the deep an’ the pale an’ the bright gold blossoms, which just laughs at dull weather—­an’ then the blue o’ the forget-me-nots an’ wood-bells,—­an’ the red o’ the roses to crown all.  An’ mebbe,” he continued, with a shrewd upward glance at his master’s face—­“when the roses come, there’ll be a bit of orange-blossom to keep ’em company—–­”

John started,—­and then his kind smile, so warm and sunny and sweet, shone like a beam of light itself across his features.

“What, Bainton!” he said—­“So you know all about it already!”

Bainton began to chuckle irrepressibly.

“Well, if the village ain’t a liar from its one end to its t’otherest, then I knows!” he declared triumphantly—­“Lord love ye, Passon, you don’t s’pose ye can keep any secrets in this ’ere parish?  They knows all about ye ‘fore ye knows yerself!—­an’ Missis Spruce she came down from the Manor last night in such a state o’ fluster as never was, an’ she sez, all shakin’ like an’ smilin’—­ ‘Miss Maryllia’s goin’ to be married,’ sez she, an’ we up an’ sez to ‘er—­’What, is the Dook goin’ to ’ave her just the same though she can’t walk no more?’ an’ she sez:  ’Dook, not a bit of it!  There’s a better man than any Dook close by an’ it’s