"In two years' time. Meanwhile, by writing to my uncles, I can procure all the money I need." "Why don't you?" "I propose doing so at the very earliest opportunity." At this she turned and looked at me with her direct, unswerving gaze, so that I grew suddenly uncomfortable. "You don't doubt my word, do you, Diana?" I questioned, glancing down at my grotesque attire. "No, Peregrine, I don't think you could deceive any one. Only I was wondering what brings the like o' you padding the roads dressed like--like you are." Hereupon, sitting down beside her, I told my story at large, much as I have written it here, to all of which she listened with such deep interest and grave attention as gratified me not a little. When at last I had ended my narrative, she sat, chin in hand, staring down at the rippling waters so long that I must needs ask what she was thinking. "That 't is no wonder you are so soft!" said she. "Soft?" I repeated indignantly. "Yes, soft, Peregrine, and so green--so precious green! You've never had a chance." "Of what?" "Of living. And your Aunt Julia's a fool!" "Diana--!" I exclaimed, inexpressibly shocked. "Such a fool, Peregrine, that I'm greatly minded to let you marry me just to see my lady's face when I take ye back and say, 'Ma'm, here's your precious Peregrine married to a girl o' the roads, ma'm, and a-going to be a man in spite o' you, ma'm!' Oh, tush! And now let's go on--unless you'm minded to sleep in the wood yonder and no supper." "As you will!" said I stiffly. And so, when she had donned her stockings and shoes, we continued our way together, though in silence now. CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH I LEARNED THAT I AM LESS OF A COWARD THAN I HAD SUPPOSED There is, I think, a wistful sadness in the fall of evening, a vague regret for the fading glories of the day which, passing out of our lives for ever, leaves us so much the richer or poorer, the nobler or more unworthy, according to the use we have made of the opportunities it has offered us for the doing of good or evil. Thus I walked pensive through the solemn evening stillness, watching the shadows gathering and the sky slowly deepen to a glimmering dusk, wherein the first faint stars peeped. Suddenly, from the mysteries of sombre trees hard by, stole the plaintive notes of a blackbird singing, as it were, in poignant, sweet farewell: 'This day, with its joys and sorrows, its pain and travail, its possibilities for works good or evil, is passed away. O ye that grieve for chances lost or wasted, that sorrow for wrongs done or good undone, be comforted. Sleep ye in the sure hope that God of His mercy shall renew your hope for better things with to-morrow's dawn. So comfort ye!' As I stood, the better to hear, my mind busied with some such thought as this conjured up of the bird's evening hymn, Diana's hand met mine in sudden, warm clasp. "O Peregrine," she murmured, "so you love the silent places too?"