"I could have told you that before now," said Mary MacEveril. "I have seen it for a long time, though Miss Emma will never confess to it." "And now, I fancy it will soon be a case," continued Tod. "A case!" cried Georgie. "What do you mean?" "A regular case; dead, and gone, and done for," nodded Tod. "Church bells and wedding gloves, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. Looks like it, anyhow, to-night." "Oh!" exclaimed Georgie, "then how sly Tom has been over it, never to tell us! Is it really true? I shall ask Valentine." "The last person likely to know," said Tod. "You'll find it's true enough, Georgie." "Then----" Georgie began, and broke off. "Listen!" she cried. "They are beginning to dance on the lawn. Come, Mary." And the two girls moved away, attracted by the scraping of the fiddle. Oliver Preen moved a step forward from the tree, speaking in a low, calm tone; but his face was white as death. "Were you alluding to _them_?" he asked, looking across to those two pacing about. "Why do you say it is a 'case'?" "Because I am sure it is one," answered Tod. "They have been in love with one another this many a day past, those two, months and months and years. As everyone might see who had eyes, except old Paul. That's why, Preen." Oliver did not answer. He had his arm round the trunk of a tree looking across as before. "And I wouldn't stake a fortune that Paul has not seen it also," went on Tod. "All the same, I had a rumour whispered to me to-day that he sees it now, and has said, 'Bless you, my children.' Tom Chandler is to be made his partner and to marry Emma." "We are too many girls there, and want you for partners," cried Eliza Letsom, dashing up. "Do come and dance with us, Johnny!" What else could I do? Or Tod, either. It was nearly eleven o'clock when the party separated. The waggonettes held us all, and nice scrambling and crowding we had for seats. One of the vehicles, after setting down some of its freight--ourselves and the Miss Chandlers--continued its way to Duck Brook with Jane and Oliver Preen. It was a lovely night. The moon had risen, and was flooding the earth with its soft light. Jane sat looking at it in romantic reverie. Suddenly it struck her that her brother was unusually still; he had not spoken a single word. "How silent you are, Oliver. You are not asleep, are you?" Oliver slowly raised his bent head. "Silent?" he repeated. "One can't talk much after a tiring day such as this." "I think it must be getting on for twelve o'clock," said Jane. "What a delightfully happy day it has been!" "The one bad day of all my life," groaned Oliver, in spirit. But he broke into the two lines, in pretended gaiety, that some one had sung on the box-seat of the waggonette when leaving Mrs. Cramp's: "For the best of all ways to lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear." III