“And now,” said Mrs. Corklemore, when the sense of wrong was paramount, “he has some secret, I am almost sure, about our sad affair at Nowelhurst. And I am sure, even if you were not his wife, dear, he need not conceal any matter of that sort from the daughter of Sir Cradock Nowellʼs old friend, Mr. Ralph Mohorn.” “I will tell you another thing,” answered Rosa, shaking all her pillows with the vehemence of her emotions, “whether he ought or not, he shall not do it, Georgie, darling. As sure as I am his lawful wife I will know every word of it before I sleep one wink. If not, he must take the consequences upon both his wife and child.” “Darling, I think you are quite right. Only donʼt tell me a word of it. It is such a dreadful matter, it would make me so unhappy——” “I will tell you every single word, just to prove to you, Georgie, that I have found the whole of it out.” After this laudable resolution, Rosa may be left to have it out with Rufus. It requires greater skill than ours to interfere between man and wife, even without the _tertium quid_ of an astounding baby. * * * * * The ides of March were come and gone, the balance of day and night was struck; and Sleep, the queen of half the world, had wheeled across the equator her poppy–chintzed throne, or had got the stars to do it for her, because she was too lazy. Ha, that sentence is almost worthy of a great stump–orator. All I mean to say is, that All Foolsʼ Day was over. Blessed are the All Fools who begin the summer (which accounts for its being a mull with us); and blessed be the All Saints who begin the winter, and then hand it over to Beelzebub. “In April she tunes her bill.” Several nightingales were at it, for the spring was early, and right early were many nests conned, planned, and contracted for. Blessed birds, that never say, “What are your expectations, sir?” or “How much will you give your daughter?”—but feather their nests without waiting for an appointment in the Treasury. Nest–eggs, too, almost as sweet as those of addled patronage, were beginning to accumulate; and it took up half a birdʼs time to settle seniority and precedence among them, fettle them all with their heads the right way, and throw overboard the cracked ones. Perhaps, in this last particular, they exercised a discretion, not only unknown to, but undreamed of, by any British Government. It was nearly dark by this time, and two nightingales, across the valley, strove in Amoibæan song till the crinkles of the opening leaves fluttered with soft melody. “In poplar shadows Philomel complaineth of her brood, Her callow nestlings plunderʼd from her by the ploughman rude: From lonely branch all night she pours her weeping musicʼs flow, Repeats her tale, and fills the world with melody and woe.” _Georg._ iv. 511.