‘My sweet one, I ought to be provided with a box of that very description,’ replied Geoffrey, grasping the little maiden’s hand and dragging her to the cottage; ‘but how could I anticipate such bliss as to find you here in this O-for-ever-to-be-sanctified-village?’ cried the lover, coining a Germanic compound in his rapture. ‘Is mamma in there? O, take me to her, darling, take me!’ Tableaux vivants, pert cousins, Lady Baker, the claims of civilised society, all melted into thin air amidst the delight of this discovery. He was as unsophisticated as if he had been a Blackfoot, brought up in the pathless hunting-grounds of the West. ‘Take me to her, thou dearest child,’ he exclaimed; and the little one led him into the cottage garden, where the bees were humming in the sunset, the air sweet with roses and carnations, happy swallows twittering in the eves. Here, on the threshold of the cottage door, framed like a picture by the stout black timbers, stood that one woman whom his soul worshipped, tall, slender, lovely, like a goddess who for a little while deigned to walk this lower earth. She looked at Geoffrey with a tender gladness, a wild surprise, opposite feelings curiously blended in the expression of that eloquent face. ‘O, Janet,’ said he, ‘how could you be so cruel as to run away from me?’ ‘How could you be so unkind as to follow me?’ she asked reproachfully. ‘I have not followed you. ’Twas chance that led me here this afternoon. There is a providence kind to true lovers, after all. I did not follow you, Janet, but I was heartbroken by the loss of you. I went down to Stillmington to carry you what I dared to think good news.’ ‘Good news!’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘Yes, the tidings of your freedom.’ Janet’s pale face grew a shade paler. ‘Come in for a little while,’ she said; ‘we cannot stand here talking of such things. Flossie, run and play on the green, darling; I’ll come to you presently. Now, Mr. Hossack.’ She led the way into the simple cottage room, spotlessly clean, and with that dainty brightness of furniture and whiteness of drapery which industrious hands can give to the humblest surroundings. It was a small square room, with two of its angles cut off by old-fashioned corner cupboards whose shining glass doors displayed the treasures of glass and china within. A dimity-covered sofa, a couple of basket-work arm-chairs, an ancient bureau of darkest mahogany, and a solid Pembroke table formed the chief furniture of the room. One of Flossie’s fairy-tale books—Geoffrey’s gift—lay open upon the table, the mother’s workbox beside it. A bowl of cut flowers adorned the broad sill of the long low casement, and the afternoon sunlight was filtered through the whitest of dimity curtains. To Geoffrey this old room, with its low ceiling sustained by heavy black beams, was perfectly delightful.