The neighbourhood was not much frequented save by anglers and artists, of both of whom there were plenty. But it was before the railway days in this pretty county, and tourists of the more objectionable kinds were unknown. So everything as to outer surroundings was charming, and the two made a very satisfactory newly-married pair. He so handsome, she so sweet. Both to all appearance perfectly happy in themselves and each other. Which, to a great extent, was the case. Geoffrey was happy beyond all he had ever dreamt of as possible; his only misgiving the fear that he was all unworthy of so sweet a bride, his only anxiety lest the wind should blow on her too rudely, or the slightest roughness be in her path. Beyond this absorbing dread of not succeeding in making her happy, the impression on his sunny, hopeful nature, left by the girl’s sad little history of her “first love,” had already began to fade. He reverenced and trusted her so deeply that the slight melancholy still clinging to her seemed to him to render her only the more beautiful, the more tender and precious, and worthy of all devotion. Doubt, suspicion, jealousy, or even the shadows of such unlovely visitants, were utterly foreign to his being. She had told him it was “all over” —that sad page in her history. He believed her, and loved her the more for the suffering she had endured. She had stirred up in him by her recital no feeling of anger or irritation towards his unknown rival. She had blamed no one for what had happened. All, she told him, had been the result of unpropitious circumstances; in saying which she had done wisely. It made it the easier for him to forget what there was little use in his remembering. And she herself? Was she too, happy? After all the storms and wearing suspense through which she had passed, had she in truth found a haven of rest and security. She thought so. “I am content,” she said to herself, “content and at peace, which is more than many can say.” True; but not what one likes to hear of as the nearest approach to happiness to be hoped for by a girl over whose head twenty summers have barely passed. At the sign of the Peacock for a time we must leave them, while we hear a little more as to what in these last few months had happened to Ralph.