thought, would be surely natural!)—­if only just as much as would lessen by ever so slight a degree her former romantic passion for the home of her childhood.  And,—­lurking sometimes at the back of all his thoughts there crept the suggestive shadow of “Amadis de Jocelyn,”—­not the French Knight of old, but the French painter, of whom she had told him and of whose very existence he had a strange and secret distrust.

On this turbulent night the old kitchen looked very peaceful and home-like,—­the open fire burned brightly, flashing its flame-light against the ceiling’s huge oak beams—­everything was swept clean and polished to the utmost point of perfection,—­and the table on which Robin rested the book he was reading was covered with a tapestried cloth, embroidered in many colours, dark and bright contrasted cunningly, with an effect that was soothing and restful to the eyes.  In the centre there was placed a quaintly shaped jar of old brown lustre which held a full tall bunch of golden-rod and deep wine-coloured dahlias,—­a posy expressing autumn with a greater sense of gain than loss.  Robin was reading with exemplary patience and considerable difficulty one of the old French poetry books belonging to the “Sieur Amadis de Jocelin,” and Priscilla’s small glittering needle flew in and out the open-work stitchery of a linen pillow-slip she was mending as deftly as any embroideress of Tudor times.  Over the old, crabbed yet delicately fine writing of the “Sieur” whose influence on Innocent’s young mind had been so pronounced and absolute, and in Robin’s opinion so malign, he pored studiously, slowly mastering the meaning of the verses, though written in a language he had never cared to study.  He was conscious of a certain suave sweetness and melancholy in the swing of the lines, though they did not appeal to him very forcibly.

  “En un cruel orage
  On me laisse perir;
  En courant au naufrage
  Je vois chacun me plaindre et mil me secourir,
  Felicite passee
  Qui ne peux revenir
  Tourment de ma pensee
  Que n’ai-je en te perdant perdu le souvenir! 
  Le sort, plein d’injustice
  M’ayant enfin rendu
  Ce reste un pur supplice,
  Je serais plus heureux si j’avais tout perdu!”

A sudden swoop of the wind shook the very rafters of the house as though some great bird had grasped it with beak and talons, and Priscilla stopped her swift needle, drawing it out to its full length of linen thread and holding it there.  A strange puzzled look was on her face—­she seemed to be listening intently.  Presently, taking off her spectacles, she laid them down, and spoke in a half whisper: 

“Mister Robin!  Robin, my dear!”

He looked up, surprised at the grave wistfulness and wonder of her old eyes.

“Yes, Priscilla?”

“I’m thinkin’ my time is drawin’ short, dear lad!” she said, slowly—­“I’ve got a call, an’ I’ll not be much longer here!  That’s a warnin’ for me—­”