Throwing a summer scarf upon her shoulders, Eliza passed out at the French window, crossed the terrace, and set out to confront the conspirators. But she was not in time. Seeing her coming, or not seeing her--who knew?--Mr. Grame turned off with a fleet foot towards his home. So nobody remained for Miss Monk to waste her angry breath upon but Lucy. The breath was keenly sharp, and Lucy fell to weeping. * * * * * "I am here, Grame. Don't go in." The words fell on the clergyman's ears as he closed the Vicarage gate behind him, and was passing up the path to his door. Turning his head, he saw Hubert Monk seated on the bench under the may tree, pink and lovely yet. "How long have you been here?" he asked, sitting down beside him. "Ever so long; waiting for you," replied Hubert. "I was only strolling about." "I saw you: with Lucy and the child." They had become fast and firm friends, these two young men; and the minister was insensibly exercising a wonderful influence over Hubert for good. Believing--as he did believe--that Hubert's days were numbered, that any sharp extra exertion might entail fatal consequences, he gently strove, as opportunity offered, to lead his thoughts to the Better Land. "What an evening it is!" rapturously exclaimed Hubert. "Ay: so calm and peaceful." The rays of the setting sun touched Hubert's face, lighting up its extreme delicacy; the scent of the closing flowers filled the still air with sweetness; the birds were chanting their evening song of praise. Hubert, his elbow on the arm of the bench, his hand supporting his chin, looked out with dreamy eyes. "What book have you there?" asked Mr. Grame, noticing one in his other hand. "Herbert," answered the young man, showing it. "I filched it from your table through the open window, Grame." The clergyman took it. It chanced to open at a passage he was very fond of. Or perhaps he knew the place, and opened it purposely. "Do you know these verses, Hubert? They are appropriate enough just now, while those birds are carolling." "I can't tell. What verses? Read them." "Hark, how the birds do sing, And woods do ring! All creatures have their joy, and man hath his, Yet, if we rightly measure, Man's joy and pleasure Rather hereafter than in present is. Not that we may not here Taste of the cheer; But as birds drink and straight lift up the head, So must he sip and think Of better drink He may attain to after he is dead." "Ay," said Hubert, breaking the silence after a time, "it's very true, I suppose. But this world--oh, it's worth living for. Will anything in the next, Grame, be more beautiful than _that_?" He was pointing to the sunset, marvellously and unusually beautiful. Lovely pink and crimson clouds flecked the west; in their midst shone a dazzling golden light too glorious to look upon.