From this childlike slumber he passed gradually, peacefully, into that sleep, the beatific happiness of whose dreams was already stamped upon the face, smoothing away all troubled lines, leaving a slight, strange smile upon the lips. Thus the troublous life, that had somehow missed happiness, passed away to the keeping of Him who understands all things, so fully, so widely, so comprehensively, that in His eyes there remains but little to forgive: for such is the Divine Compassion. *CHAPTER XXI* Hazel was standing before the mirror in her room, thoughtfully fastening her riding habit. "It is _beginning_ to get shabby," she reflected; "but as he says I am never to wear anything but brown for riding, there is no purpose in having another made for the sake of change: dark green, for instance. I wonder whether he would find a name for me in dark green. Let me see: in brown I am Wych-hazel; in my scarlet coat I am Witch; and in my white dresses I am just Hazel—in rather a special voice, of course," she reminded herself, blushing. "But dark green——" "What name would you give me if I had a dark green dress?" she asked, a while later, as she and Paul Charteris brought their horses from a brisk canter to a walk. "Moss Rose, of course," he answered, without hesitation. "I am so glad that Uncle Percival insisted that no one should wear mourning for him. I should not like to see you in black, child. It would look tragic, and I don’t know what I could call you." "Won’t Teddie find it funny going back to college, after being a clerk so long?" Hazel said, laughing. Paul agreed. "When are you going to call me Paul?" he asked of a sudden. "I am longing to hear you." Hazel looked dubious. "Some people never do," she answered, desirous of showing him she was not peculiar. "We once knew a man named John Dalrymple, and his wife called him Mr. Dalrymple, and when she was very friendly, just Dalrymple, but never John." "Then suppose you begin by calling me Charteris," he suggested. "Perhaps I don’t feel friendly enough," she returned mischievously. "Shall I go ahead here, or will you?" They had entered upon a bit of woodland, through which a bridle track led to the open country beyond. It was a somewhat dangerous path to traverse on horseback, save in the full light of day: for here and there a far-stretching tree would reach out a powerful limb, as though to stay the rider’s further progress; and, as if angered at the prudence of the low-ducking horseman, would make a desperate endeavour to clutch at his hat. It successful in this attempt, the trophy would be flung to the ground in malicious glee, causing a considerable amount of trouble to the hapless owner; there being nothing for it but to rein up, dismount, and retrace the distance already passed over to recover the ill-used headgear.