“Ah reckon th’ won’t be no dimples, Mister Burton,” said Bob lugubriously. “Ah reckon she’ll jes’ natu’ally snatch me bald-headed, sah, for not comin’ back an’ wipin’ de dishes.” Burton shook his head sorrowfully. [Illustration] [Illustration] “You pain me, Robert. All the time you have stayed here keeping me from my work you have been neglecting your own labors. That is not right. Return at once to the kitchen and the Princess Lavinia. Not a word! I refuse to listen any longer to your chatter.” “Yessah,” said Bob eagerly. “Thank’ y’, sah. Anythin’ Ah can git you, sah?” “Nothing, Robert. Do not attempt to disarm my resentment; I am disappointed in you.” Burton waved him away. When he had gone, Burton lighted a third cigarette, stretched his arms overhead, yawned inelegantly and--suddenly sat up very straight and attentive in the chair. From across the nodding roses, from an open window of the Castle, floated again a girl’s sweet, fresh voice in song. Burton’s heart leaped and he tried to still his breathing that he might hear the better, the while he searched eagerly with his gaze the windows of the house beyond the rose-garden. “O Paradise, O Paradise, the world is growing old; Who would not be at rest and free where love is never cold? Where loyal hearts and true stand ever in the light, All rapture thro’ and thro’ in God’s most holy sight?” [Illustration] [Illustration] The words of the hymn died softly away and silence held the Castle again, a peaceful silence that now held for Burton a new significance. After a few moments he gathered his pencils and paper together and arose. The hymn had recalled to his mind a fact which he had lost sight of,--namely, that to-day was Sunday. And he knew enough of Belle Harbour and its customs to be sure that, even should he wait there in the garden all day long, he would not be rewarded with a glimpse of the Princess. At the door of the house he turned and looked again over the enchanting scene. Beyond the iron fence the roses drowsed and nodded sleepily, the yuccas gently swung their bells, the leaves cast flickering shadows on the red gravel paths, and the bees droned. The magnolia had already begun to spread its mellow gloom over the garden and from its depths a yellow-breasted songster, half seen like a speck of molten gold between the moving leaves, gushed its soul into song. But for the rest, silence and emptiness. [Illustration] VI