Madeline was thankful to get into the peaceful country, with its placid green fields and budding hedges; to live in Farmer Holt’s old red-roofed house, with the clipped yew trees in the sunny garden, and the big pool at the foot of it overshadowed by elder trees. Thankful to enjoy this haven of rest, away from murky London, with its roar of hurrying existence and deafening street traffic that never seemed to cease, night or day, in the neighbourhood of Solferino Place. Here the lusty crowing of rival cocks, the lowing of cows, the noise of the churn were the only sounds that broke a silence that was as impressive as it was refreshing. All things have an end. Madeline’s three weeks’ leave soon came to a conclusion; and she most reluctantly tore herself away from the farm, the evening before she was due at Harperton. How happy she was here! Why must she go? Laurence was better, a great deal better. He walked in the garden, leaning on her arm at first, then in the lanes with no support but his stick. He was more hopeful, more like his former self--he was actually engaged in tying flies for Farmer Holt, as Madeline watched him wistfully, with her chin on her hand. She loved the farm itself--the farmer’s wife (kind Mrs. Holt, with a heart to match her ample person). The sweet little chickens, and ducks, and calves, and foals, were all delightful to Madeline, who, active as ever, had helped to feed the former, learned to make butter, to make griddle-cakes, to milk, and was on foot from six in the morning until nine o’clock at night, and had recovered the look of youth and well-being which had so long been missing from her appearance. The farmer himself was to drive her to the station in his dog-cart, and she and Laurence strolled down the lane together to say a few last words ere they parted--for how long? Laurence was hopeful now, and Madeline was tearfully despondent. He was recovering, and felt more self-reliance every day. He would soon, please God, be back at work. “I don’t know what has come over me, Laurence,” said his wife, as they came to the gate and a full stop. “I feel so low, so depressed, something tells me that I shall not see you again for _ages_,” her eyes filling with tears. “And I feel so nervous about meeting papa,” and her lips quivered as she spoke. “Nonsense, Maddie! you must never meet trouble half way. Your father cannot but be pleased with you, and when you tell him about me----” “Oh, but I won’t, I dare not at first,” she interrupted hastily. “It all comes back to me now. The days in that big house in Toorak, and how I used to be afraid when I heard his voice in the entrance-hall--his voice when he was angry. I used to run away and hide under a bed!”