And how true this statement was, Gabriel had reason to discover as time passed by, for the so-called “Oxford Parliament” failed utterly, and a steady “stream of converts began to flow from Oxford to London.” Just at present, however, the convalescent was much more inclined to enjoy the exquisite beauty of Milton’s “L’Allegro,” than to vex his soul over the problems of the day, and as his father read him the poem, he forgot war and strife and theological controversy, and was once more transported to his beloved Herefordshire, and the country life so dear to him. After that first night of Dr. Harford’s arrival, Hilary’s name had not once been mentioned between them. Gabriel’s rereserve was great; moreover, he was not without an instinctive dread that further questioning might disturb the relief and comparative peace he had gained from those memorable words which had dragged him back from the very door of death. And his father understood the silence, and thought that it would be rash to break it. Only on the very eve of Dr. Harford’s departure did they venture to approach the subject which was seldom far from their thoughts. Gabriel, now so far convalescent that he was able to sit in a great armchair by the hearth, asked if his father would see Bishop Coke on his return. “Ay, I shall ride to Whitbourne and bear him the Archbishop’s message,” said Dr. Harford. “Those two will never again meet in this world, for Bishop Coke also grows old and infirm.” “You will see Hilary?” said Gabriel, with an effort. “Yes, if she is still at Whitbourne,” said the Doctor. “She is sometimes there, and sometimes with her uncle, Dr. William Coke.” “I never met him,” said Gabriel. “When you see her, sir, tell her that her message had more to do with my cure than the skill of Sir Theodore Mayerne.” Dr. Harford laughed. “That is all the thanks we poor physicians get,” he said, lightly. “In happier times, my son, when you yourself are in the profession, I’ll recall that speech to you. Shall I tell Hilary that you wish to forsake the Bar and to tread in my footsteps?”’ “I fear that work will not find much more favour in her eyes, than my present work,” said Gabriel, ruefully. “She ever held that the Bar was the only profession worthy of a gentleman. I seem fated to displease her.” “I should not trouble much on that score,” said the Doctor. “In sorrow or need, or when her heart is really reached, trifles of that sort make no difference to her, as I saw plainly enough at the time of her mother’s death. So courage, my son! Wait and see what time will bring forth. It seems likely that for those two young people below, Hymen will shortly appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, and I yet hope, when this war is ended, that Whitbourne may be the scene of such Pomp, and feast, and revelry, as now you scarce dare think on.”