The cloud poor Peter Every had found so menacing had discharged rain of pure gold. Love had emerged from the shower, refreshed, glistening. The two could not know that, while they passed down the steps into the sunlit flower-garden, a girl with auburn hair was pushing a frantic three-year-old through the Scotch mist of Donegal, and wondering at every bank whether she would have the good fortune to break her neck. Still, though their rain be golden, clouds beget shadows. If Lyveden responded to Valerie's invitation, he did not rise to her mood. The throwback to Gramarye had set him thinking.... "Valerie," he said slowly, knitting his brows. The girl had been upon the point of stopping to pick a rose. His serious tone, however, made her look up. The bloom was spared. "Yes." "When I went down--in November--there was something wrong. I mean, we were at variance." With difficulty the girl repressed a shiver. For a while she had hourly dreaded an allusion to the grim episode. Then, when the weeks went by and none was made, she began, at first feebly, to hope that it was buried. Gradually the hope had swelled into belief. Lately she had made sure that upon the first day, when Anthony had wept in her arms, he and she had been treading upon its grave. And now here it was--like a river full in their path, a swift-flowing treacherous stream which they must ford together. She would have given anything for a moment to collect her thoughts, but Anthony had started across. Already he was up to his knees.... To be frank, she was in a tight place. The issues she had to deal with were clogged. Her treatment of them was to be governed by ruthless premises. Finally, if she made a false step, her fortunes and those of Anthony would be again in the melting-pot. For an instant her brain zig-zagged. The next moment she had it in hand. "Yes," she said slowly, "we were. I hoped you'd forgotten. You see, I'm very much ashamed. And, when my eyes were opened, I was just terrified. I felt as if I'd committed murder." As she spoke, her brain fairly flashed through the rules which must govern this talk. Everything hinged upon one mighty postulate--that _Anthony had collapsed precisely at one-fifteen upon the 16th of November_. He had, of course, done nothing of the sort. But that did not matter. _From that hour, for four months and a half, he had lain in a trance_. This was the second article, which except Anthony believed, he could not be saved. Anthony's memory, however, was a faithful servant--not to be tampered with. To reconcile the servant's report with the articles of his faith, a third tenet became essential. This was that _what Anthony remembered was the burthen of a dream_. There go the governing principles. Now for the issues.