When bride and bridegroom were comfortably seated in the railway carriage, travelling express to Dover, Maurice took an oblong parcel out of his pocket, and laid it in Justina’s lap. ‘Your wedding present, love.’ ‘Not jewels I hope, Maurice.’ ‘Jewels!’ he cried, with a laugh. ‘How should a pauper give jewels to the proprietress of flourishing tin mines? That would be taking diamonds to Golconda.’ She tore open the package with a puzzled look. It was a small octavo volume, bound in ivory, with an antique silver clasp, and Justina’s monogram in silver set with rubies—a perfect gem in the way of bookbinding. ‘Do not suppose that I esteem the contents worthy the cover,’ said Maurice, laughing. ‘The cover is a tribute to you.’ ‘What is it, Maurice?’ asked Justina, turning the book over and over, too fascinated with its outward seeming to open it hastily. ‘A Church Service?’ ‘When one wants to know the contents of a book one generally looks inside.’ She opened it eagerly. ‘A Life Picture! Oh, how good of you to remember that I liked this poem!’ cried Justina. ‘It would be strange if I forgot your liking for it, dearest. Do you remember your speculations about the poet?’ ‘Yes, dear, I remember wondering what he was like.’ ‘Would you be very much surprised if you heard that he is the image of me?’ ‘Maurice!’ ‘I have given you the only wedding gift I had to offer, love—the first fruits of my pen.’ ‘Oh, Maurice, is it really me? Have I married a poet?’ ‘You have married something better, dear; an honest man, who loves you with all his strength, and heart, and mind.’ * * * * * Three years later and Maurice’s fame as a poet is an established fact, a fact that grows and widens with time. Mr. and Mrs. Clissold have built themselves a summer residence, a house of the Swiss châlet order, near Borcel End, where Muriel lives her quiet life, her father’s placid companion, harmless, tranquil, only what Phœbe the housemaid calls ‘a little odd in her ways.’ Justina and Viola Bellingham are fast friends, much to the delight of Martin Trevanard, who contrives somehow to be always at hand during Viola’s visits to the châlet. He breaks in a pair of Iceland ponies for that lady’s phaeton, and makes himself generally useful. He is Viola’s adviser upon all agricultural matters, and has quite given up that old idea of establishing himself in London. He rides to hounds every season, and sometimes has the honour of showing Miss Bellingham the way—an easy way, for the most part, through gates, and convenient gaps in hedges.