Abiram put a steely nip upon Mr. Fletcher's right buttock. William called off his dogs; stood aghast. Mr. Marrapit stretched entreating arms to his adored. Mr. Fletcher writhed prone. The torn Rose slipped to Mr. Marrapit's bosom. Clasping her he turned upon William--“You shall pay for this blood!” William stammered: “I'm very sorry, sir. If--” “Never again enter my gates. I'll have your curs shot!” Curs was unfortunate; the evil three were whelped of a mighty strain. “If your fool of a man hadn't got in the way, the cat would have escaped,” William hotly cried. Indignant he turned. Banishment was nothing then; in time it came to be a bitter thing. Mr. Marrapit had raged on to Mr. Fletcher, yet writhing. “You hear that?” he had cried. “Dolt! You are responsible for this!” He touched the blood-flecked side, the abrased ear; clasped close the Rose; called for warm water. Mr. Fletcher clapped a hand to his wound as shakily he rose. “I go to rescue his cat!” he said; “I'm near worried to death by 'ounds. I'm a dolt. I'm responsible. It's 'ard,--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a dog muzzle.” A dimness clouded Margaret's beautiful eyes as this bitter picture--she had watched it--was again reviewed. She murmured “Oh, Bill!”; stretched her soft arms to the night; moved her pretty lips in a message to her lover; snuggled between the sheets and made melancholy her bedfellow. IV. By seven she was up and in the fresh garden. George was before her. She cried brightly: “Why, how early you are!” and ran to him--very pretty in her white dress: at her breast a rose, the poem fluttering in her hand. “Yes; for once before you.” George's tone did not give back her mood, purposely keyed high. She played on it again: “Turning a new leaf?” He drummed at the turf with his heel: “Yes--for to-day.” He threw out a hand towards her: “But in the same old book. I've had eight--nine years of it, and now there are three more months.” “Poor George! But only three months, think how they will fly!” He was desperately gloomy: “I haven't your imagination. Each single day of them will mean a morning--here; a night--here.” “Oh, is it so hard?” “Yes, now. It's pretty deadly now. You know, when I wasn't precisely killing myself with overwork, I didn't mind so much. When it was three or four years, anyway, before I could possibly be free, a few extra months or so through failing an exam, didn't trouble me. But this is different. I was right up against getting clear of all this”--he comprehended garden and house in a sweep of the hand--“counted it a dead certainty--and here I am pitched back again.” “But, George, you did work so hard this time. It isn't as though you had to blame yourself.” She put a clinging hand into his arm. “You can suffer no--remorse. That is what makes failure so dreadful--the knowledge that things might have been otherwise if one had liked.” George laughed quite gaily. Gloom never lay long upon this young man.