Hilary racked her brain for a song which was not a love song, but failed to find anything better than “Phyllis on the New-Mown Hay,” which she sang with a spirit so gay and _debonnair_, and a voice so exquisitely fresh, that Gabriel’s passion was increased ten-fold. Like the lover in the song, he bid fair to be a most “faithful Damon,” and Hilary knew it, and wondered how it had come to pass that but an hour before they had been well content to think of each other merely as old friends and playfellows. They were deep in conversation when, looking up, Hilary saw her grandfather slowly pacing down the garden. The Palace was not far from Mrs. Unett’s house, and the old man loved to escape from the state and ceremony that surrounded him, and to enjoy the quiet of his daughter’s home. Gabriel, who had been much away from Hereford, had only met the Bishop occasionally. But when at Oxford he had heard complaints of the tyranny, the mischief-making and the political intrigues of bishops in general, he had always looked on their own Bishop as a remarkable exception to the general rule. Glancing now at the stately old man, whose scholarly face bore a striking resemblance to that of his brother, Sir John Coke, the recently-dismissed Secretary of State, he knew that he was confronting the arbiter of his fate, and noted with relief the kindly look in the Bishop’s eyes as he caught sight of them. “So, Mr. Harford, you are returned to us once more,” said the old man, giving him a courteous greeting. “I heard my granddaughter’s voice, but did not know of your arrival.” “The plague is increasing at Oxford, my lord,” said Gabriel; “and it was thought best that we should not remain there. I returned to Brampton Bryan with Ned Harley.” The name of Harley brought a shadow over the Bishop’s face, for Sir Robert’s Puritanism met with little favour in the county. He reflected with some uneasiness that Gabriel Harford was of the same persuasion, in all probability, and not altogether a good companion for Hilary. “Sing to us, child,” he said, glancing at his granddaughter and Hilary, who had noted his change of expression, began his favourite air “Hark, hark, the lark at heaven’s gate sings!”