His voice sank to almost playful tenderness, his arm stole round her waist again, and she rose hurriedly. "But--but is this possible?" she asked incredulously. "I thought there was so much formality----" He smiled tolerantly. "Not at all! a special license is all that's required, and I have that; so if you--you dear, solemn thing!--will really consent to do without a wedding----" She looked at him, startled. "But surely we are going to be married?" He laughed loudly. "Of course we are. I meant the bridesmaids and the cake and the orange-blossoms and all that. I don't want them, darling, if you don't. It's enough for me to have you." She set the question and his kiss aside as of no value whatever. "Then I think you had better get the rector if you can, Ted," she said thoughtfully. "I expect it will make a great difference to him--to grandfather, I mean--and to you also. And you've been so awfully good! Will you tell grandfather?" she added with a little blush as she released herself from her lover's thanks. "Well, you see," he confessed, "I've half-promised him already--that is why he went to sleep. You are always so reasonable, Aura, I felt I might count on you----" And then the sight of her standing there so sweet, so kind, so absolutely unconscious, seemed to overwhelm him, and he cried passionately, "Oh, my dear, my dear! I hope I shall make you happy--but you are a thousand times too good for me." He told himself so over and over again as he hurried on his bicycle to the rectory, and he swore to himself almost incoherently that although the rush of mere moneymaking had absorbed much of his waking life, it should never invade the corner that was sacred to his love. And as he said this he turned his head suddenly towards the winter woods, for in his ears that mellow blackbird call to the wilds seemed to sound, as it had sounded that evening when, all unwitting, he had sold his soul to Mr. Hirsch. When he had gone on his mission Aura drew out Ned's valentine again, smoothed it over, and looked at it once more. For the first time in her life she felt the need of some one--some woman to whom she could talk. Finally she folded up the telegram, put it on the mantelpiece, and went into the kitchen. There was always Martha, and Martha's sound common-sense was a byword. "Martha," she said, after standing for a few moments watching the deft hands dab butter over paste, and roll it in with swift decision--it was almost like watching the mill which grinds small! "I want to ask you something; but you must promise not to mention it even to Adam." "Even to Bate!" echoed Martha with a sniff. "If I'd my choice, Miss H'Aura, I'd as lief mention it to the town-crier. Not that Bate doesn't mean well. It ain't his fault being born so; but there, one must just take holt of men as they're made, and be thankful they is no worse."