those belonging to your favourite French Knight Amadis!—­and try to add to the little learning I gained at Oxford.  I am sending for your book!—­when it comes I shall read every word of it with an interest too deep to be expressed to you in my poor language.  ‘Cupid’ is well—­he flies to my hand, surprised, I think, to find it of so rough a texture as compared with the little rose-velvet palm to which he was accustomed.  Will you ever come to Briar Farm again?  God bless you!  Robin.”

She shed some tears over this letter—­then, moved by a sudden impulse, sat down and answered it at once, giving a full account of her meeting and acquaintance with another Amadis de Jocelyn—­ “the real last descendant,” she wrote, “of the real old family of the very Amadis of Briar Farm!” She described his appearance and manners,—­descanted on his genius as a painter, and all unconsciously poured out her ardent, enthusiastic soul on this wonderful discovery of the Real in the Ideal.  She said nothing of her own work or success, save that she was glad to be able to earn her living.  And when Robin read the simple outflow of her thoughts his heart grew cold within him.  He, with the keen instinct of a lover, guessed at once all that might happen,—­saw the hidden fire smouldering, and became conscious of an inexplicable dread, as though a note of alarm had sounded mystically in his brain.  What would happen to Innocent, if she, with her romantic, old-world fancies, should allow a possible traitor to intrude within the crystal-pure sphere where her sweet soul dwelt unsullied and serene?  He told Priscilla the strange story—­and she in her shrewd, motherly way felt something of the same fear.

“Eh, the poor lamb!” she sighed—­“That old French knight was ever a fly in her brain and a stumbling-block in the way of us all!—­ and now to come across a man o’ the same name an’ family, turning up all unexpected like,—­why, it’s like a ghost’s sudden risin’ from the tomb!  An’ what does it mean, Mister Robin?  Are you the master o’ Briar Farm now?—­or is he the rightful one?”

Clifford laughed, a trifle bitterly.

“I am the master,” he said, “according to my uncle’s will.  This man is a painter—­famous and admired,—­he’ll scarcely go in for farming!  If he did—­if he’d buy the farm from me—­I should be glad enough to sell it and leave the country.”

“Mister Robin!” cried Priscilla, reproachfully.

He patted her hand gently.

“Not yet—­not yet anyhow, Priscilla!” he said—­“I may be yet of some use—­to Innocent.”  He paused, then added, slowly—­“I think we shall hear more of this second Amadis de Jocelyn!”