The song soon lulled the old Bishop into tranquility; he had taken out his ivory tablets with the intention of making some such entry as this: “Mem: to warn my daughter not to countenance any matrimonial proposal in respect of G. H. and Hilary.” For was it not well known that Dr. Harford had spoken strongly against the war in Scotland--“the Bishops’ war,” now in progress--and who could tell what difficulties might arise in the future? But somehow, as the song proceeded, he slid into a state of dreamy content, and noted instead on the tablets a fresh idea for his treatise on the Epistle to the Colossians, which was suggested in part by the music and in part by the faces of Gabriel and Hilary. He looked benevolently across at the two young people, his mind hovering betwixt heaven and earth and the grievous divisions of his day all forgot. Thus it chanced that through the halcyon days of that wonderful summer, Gabriel wooed Hilary in peace until, one morning, early in September, he found the present not sufficient for him, but must needs try to ensure the future, and hear from her own lips the promise that would set him at rest. They had been out riding with the doctor, but had found the day hot, and, leaving the horses with the groom, had wandered across a bit of wild country bordering the road, to find rest and shelter in a little wood. Great beech trees made a solemn shade over the russet carpet of last year’s leaves, and here and there the sunbeams slanting through the branches turned the russet to gold and threw a silvery sheen over the brake fern growing around. The robins sang cheerfully overhead, and now and then a squirrel would dance from branch to branch scampering the faster as it caught sight of the two intruders resting in the shade beneath. The very quiet of the place made Gabriel think involuntarily of the strange contrast to be found in “towered cities” amid “the busy hum of men.” Surely never again would he find so sweet a paradise in which to speak his love. The audacity of his childhood filled him now with amaze. What would he not have given for the easy flow of words which had then been at his command? “This is perfection,” said Hilary, taking off her hat and fanning herself leisurely with a great fern. “There is one thing wanting,” said Gabriel. “You are exacting,” said Hilary, with a little rippling laugh. “What more can heart desire?” “A bliss that would last,” said Gabriel, his voice trembling. “Ah! but that is asking too much,” she answered, musingly. “Nothing lasts.” “Nothing but love,” he said, in a tone that made her lift her eyes to his, and speedily drop them. The colour rushed to her face, but her confusion seemed to cheer him. “Hilary,” he exclaimed, “do you not know that I love you? You who first wakened love in me--who first made me truly live--surely you must know? I love you with all my being; only be mine--be mine.” “I am your friend,” she faltered--“have ever been your friend.”