Thus we talked, George the landlord and I, while his pretty, buxom wife bustled quietly to and fro or vanished into the mysteries of her dairy, whence came the creak of churn, the chink of pot or pan and suchlike homely sounds where her two trim maids laughed and chattered over their labours. It was a glorious afternoon and, at my suggestion, George brought me into a garden behind the inn where flowers rioted, filling the air with their mingled perfumes, and so to a well-stocked orchard beyond, whence came the warm odour of ripening fruit. "You have a very beautiful home, George." "An' all thanks to my little old woman, sir. I were a soldier once an' a tur'ble drinker, but Mary--Lord, sir, 'tis wonnerful how good a good woman can be an' how bad a bad 'un can be--though she's generally made bad, I've noticed! Damme, sir, axin' your parding but damme notwithstanding, there's some men as I'd like to 'ave wrigglin' on the end of a bagnet!" And he turned to scowl fiercely towards a stretch of dark woodland that gloomed beyond a rolling stretch of sunny meadow land. "The sentiment is a little bloody, George," said I, glancing at this stretch of dark wood, "but under the circumstances, I think it does you credit. And now, seeing I have a full hour to wait for Mr. Vere-Manville, I will take a little stroll and waste no more of your time;" and smiling down his protestations to the contrary, I sauntered off through the golden afternoon. To-morrow the term of my patient waiting was to be accomplished; Diana was coming back to me! At this thought there rushed over me such an eager, passionate joy that my breath caught and I paused to lean across a gate, endeavouring to picture her to myself as she now was, 'a changed Diana and yet the same', even as she had written. And as I stood thus, down to me through the sunny air came the song of a mounting lark who, as if knowing my thought, seemed striving to sing forth something of the ineffable happiness that thrilled me. The song ended, I went on again, walking slowly, my head bowed, lost in a happy dream. And presently I found myself walking amid trees, through an ever-deepening shadow, and, looking up, saw I had entered the pine wood. For a moment I hesitated, minded to turn back into the sunshine, then I went on, picking my way among these gloomy trees, the pine needles soft beneath my tread; thus, since there was no wind, I walked in silence broken only by the faint jingle of my spurs and the rustle of my advance, a silence that affected me with a vague unease. There seemed something stealthy in this uncanny stillness so that I grew stealthy also and set myself to keep my spurs from jingling, for unseen eyes seemed to be watching me. The deeper I penetrated this dismal wood, the darker it grew, and I advanced, cautious and silent, and with a vague sense of expectancy though of what I could not determine. With the glad sunshine my joyousness had vanished, in its