Returning to the room where he had sat alone before supper, he sank heavily into the armchair he had previously occupied.  The window was still open, and the scent of roses stole in with every breath of air,—­a few stars sparkled in the sky, and a faint line of silver in the east showed where the moon would shortly rise.  He looked out in dreamy silence, and for some minutes seemed too much absorbed in thought to notice the presence of Innocent, who had seated herself at a small table near him, on which she had set a lit candle, and was quietly sewing.  She had forgotten that she still wore the wreath of wild roses,—­the fragile flowers were drooping and dying in her hair, and as she bent over her work and the candlelight illumined her delicate profile, there was something almost sculptural in the shape of the leaves as they encircled her brow, making her look like a young Greek nymph or goddess brought to life out of the poetic dreams of the elder world.  She was troubled and anxious, but she tried not to let this seem apparent.  She knew from her life’s experience of his ways and whims that it was best to wait till the old man chose to speak, rather than urge him into talk before he was ready or willing.  She glanced up from her sewing now and again and saw that he looked very pale and worn, and she felt that he suffered.  Her tender young heart ached with longing to comfort him, yet she knew not what she should say.  So she sat quiet, as full of loving thoughts as a Madonna lily may be full of the dew of Heaven, yet mute as the angelic blossom itself.  Presently he moved restlessly, and turning in his chair looked at her intently.  The fixity of his gaze drew her like a magnet from her work and she put down her sewing.

“Do you want anything, Dad?”

He rose, and began to fumble with the buttons of his smock.

“Ay—­just help me to get this off.  The working day is over,—­the working clothes can go!”

She was at his side instantly and with her light deft fingers soon disembarrassed him of the homely garment.  When it was taken off a noticeable transformation was effected in his appearance.  Clad in plain dark homespun, which was fashioned into a suit somewhat resembling the doublet and hose of olden times, his tall thin figure had a distinctly aristocratic look and bearing which was lacking when clothed in the labourer’s garb.  Old as he was, there were traces of intellect and even beauty in his features,—­his head, on which the thin white hair shone like spun silver, was proudly set on his shoulders in that unmistakable line which indicates the power and the will to command; and as he unconsciously drew himself upright he looked more like some old hero of a hundred battles than a farmer whose chief pride was the excellence of his crops and the prosperity of his farm managed by hand work only.  For despite the jeers of his neighbours, who were never tired of remonstrating with him for not “going with the times,” Jocelyn had