"You English do not care to travel on a Sunday, I notice." "We English! Allow me to remind Mademoiselle that she is just as much English as are the rest of us." Katrine smiled. "My good mother instilled all kinds of old-world notions into me, Katrine. Amongst them was that of never doing week-day work on a Sunday unless compelled by necessity." "Do you never work on a Sunday--at your reviews and writings, and all that?" "Never. I am sure it would not bring me luck if I did. Suppose we fix Thursday for walking to Church Leet?" "That will do nicely. Unless--Squire Todhetley invited you to go with him to Evesham one day, you know," broke off Katrine. "He may just fix upon Thursday." "In that case we will take our walk on Friday." A silence ensued. Their hearts were very full, and that makes speech reticent. Katrine glanced now and again at the pages of the "Vicar of Wakefield," which lay in her lap, but she did not read it. As to the barrister, he was looking at her; at the face that had become so dear to him. They might never meet again, nothing on earth might come of the present intimacy and the sweet burning longings, but he knew that he should remember her to the end of time. A verse of one of Moore's melodies passed through his mind: unconsciously he began to hum it: "O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it, lingering, haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste." "Here comes Joan to say tea is ready," interrupted Katrine. They strolled indoors slowly, side by side. The tea-tray waited in the parlour. Mr. Barbary came in from the gun-room, and they all sat down to the table. After tea he went back to the gun-room, Mr. Reste with him, leaving Katrine alone. She had the candles lighted and began to mend a piece of Mrs. Todhetley's valuable old lace. Presently Joan came in to ask a question. "Miss Katrine, is it the brace of partridges or the pheasants that are to be cooked for supper? Do you know?" "No, that I don't," said Katrine. "But I can ask." Putting down her work, she went to the gun-room and gently opened the door. Upon which, she heard these remarkable words from Mr. Reste: "I wouldn't hesitate at all if it were not for the moon." "The moon makes it all the safer," contended Mr. Barbary. "Foes can't rush upon one unawares when the moon's shining. I tell you this will be one of the best possible nights for you." "Papa, papa," hurriedly broke in Katrine, speaking through the dusk of twilight, "is Joan to cook the pheasants or the partridges?" "The pheasants," he answered sharply. "Shut the door." So the pheasants were dressed for supper, and very nice they proved with their bread-sauce and rich gravy. Mr. Barbary especially seemed to enjoy them; his daughter did not.