It had been an unflawed year of renewal and achievement. They had ridden a great deal—always gay and happy and near to each other when they rode together—with something of the surprise and enjoyment of their first ride together always recurrent and fresh in their last. Sên King-lo danced as willingly as ever and as well. He still made music for his wife whenever she bade him. Their congeniality held, and he was still her lover. The “gentry” had proved far less dull than it had seemed at first. King-lo found and made many interests here, and Ruby found several amusements. Sên King-lo became a sort of lord of the manor, unofficial but acknowledged and accredited, as respected as the official one who, through no fault of his own, was very deaf, a trifle gouty, and more than a trifle parsimonious. Mr. Sên was the more popular and the more consulted of the two. Half the children in the village brought their troubles to him, and so did the postmaster, the rector, the constables,—there were three there and thereabouts—and the sidesman; and more than once so did Lady Margaret Saunders. Brent-on-Wold was a happier and a kindlier place, and a more awake and alive one, because a Chinese man had come to live there. Ruby was entirely contented now, and she often chatted frankly, almost affectionately, of her days in China. Released from it, Ho-nan grew a very pleasant and interesting place in her memory and in her talk. She sometimes spoke of her bungalow on the Peak with a regret that was perfectly unaffected and sincere. Her husband was Chinese, and so was their name; but she did not mind in the least, because Lo was so thoroughly English. If Sên King-lo had trod a ploughshare, he had trod it to good purpose; and, if he had, no one in England suspected it, unless Charles Snow did. Snow caught a hint of terror in the younger man’s eyes now and then—or thought he did; for he was never quite sure. Next to her husband, Ruby Sên loved her children, and even King-lo did not know that she sometimes wished that Ivy might, as she grew, grow a little more English in appearance. “I don’t know how ever Ivy will bring herself to present little Ivy when she’s old enough,” Emma Snow had said to Sir Charles more than once. “I know I couldn’t.” Sir Charles made no reply. Debonair always, interested in everything that his wife cared for, boyishly ready to play tennis with her, to ride or sing with her, to help her entertain or be entertained, yet Sên King-lo found time to be alone sometimes and to spend a great deal of time with his children. Baby Ivy spent hours on her father’s knee—in some quiet garden nook when the day was warm enough. The bond between the two was very close. Ruben’s chief love was for his mother.