“We call it a death,” said Sir Robert, “but he has been as surely murdered by the rigours of imprisonment as though he had been stabbed in the Tower. Well,” with a sigh, “the day of reckoning cannot long be delayed.” “There, laddie,” said the doctor, drawing the sleeve gently over the bandage, “you have borne it like an Englishman; now run off into the fresh air and forget your troubles.” With respectful salutes to their elders the children returned to the garden; Hilary, with her pretty eyes still tender and subdued, slipped her arm caressingly round her playmate’s neck. “I’m sorry, Gabriel,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “and all the time I didn’t really mean it. I will be your little wife.” Gabriel turned and kissed her soft, rosy cheek with great frankness and warmth. “If you will,” he said, “I’ll promise not to worry your puppets any more. I don’t know how it is,” he continued reflectively, “but there’s something that makes a boy feel to a puppet like a dog does to a cat--he _must_ worry it.” “There was the one you roasted last Lammastide,” said Hilary, sadly. “But you know it did make a glorious bonfire, and you enjoyed that part of it,” said Gabriel, with mirth in his eyes. “But I wanted the puppet back again afterwards.” “Well, well, I must try to remember you like the wretches. And you must really remember your promise, and not chop and change any more!” “What does chop mean?” “Go up and down like the sea; don’t you know how old Nat the sailor says the sea was a bit choppy?” “I won’t be like the sea,” said Hilary, her lovely little face flushing and her eyes shining. “I give you my real true promise to be your wife.” Gabriel did not repeat the kiss, for at that moment there flashed into his mind a fresh idea. “Hilary,” he exclaimed, “let us build a snow monument to Sir John Eliot; he shall lie in effigy like Bishop Swinfield in the cathedral.” “But your arm?” “I can work with the right one,” he replied, cheerfully, and the two were soon as happy as could be fashioning their recumbent snow man. Later on Dr. Harford, passing down the south walk arm-inarm with Hilary’s father, and still discussing the sad news brought by Sir Robert Harley, drew his friend’s attention to the busy little pair. “They make excellent playmates,” said Frank Unett. “What would I not give for the hope of living to see my little maid grow up! But it will not be; Sir John Eliot’s malady will carry me off long ere that.” Dr. Harford knew only too well that his companion spoke the truth, but he answered cheerfully, “You cannot look forward to long life, but with care you will be spared to us for some years, I trust.” “I should not dread leaving my wife and child behind were not the times so dark,” said the invalid. “’Tis true my father-in-law is a learned and worthy man, but his views are not mine. Do what you can for them, Bridstock, they will need staunch friends.”