“Ah, hush!” she murmured. “He was but a dream ... but thou, my dear, brave, noble, most honourable ... oh, wilt stifle me, John? Nay, they will see us——” So in due season they drove into the winding street of High Dering where stood folk to cheer, to flourish hats and flutter scarves a little shyly, but to fall suddenly silent and stare wide-eyed as Sir John, my lady beside him, paused bare-headed to salute that solitary old creature whom all had scorned so long and persecuted as a witch; silent she stood leaning upon her staff, but in all the glory of rustling silk and belaced mutch, her indomitable old head aloft, her bright, old eyes keen as ever, yet surely strangely gentle for a witch. And now Sir John was speaking, his clear voice very plain to be heard: “Good friend Penelope, the years have been very cruel and hard for thee. But indeed thy sufferings have not been wholly in vain, as I think, and henceforth, John Dering shall be the first to do thee honour.” So saying, he took that worn and shrivelled hand, drawing it within his arm, and so brought her to the cottage gate where stood the Duchess, glad-eyed, with Sir Hector towering gigantic behind her. But now Mr. Potter’s voice was heard in placid exhortation: “Come, friends and neighbours, cheer now, a cheer for Dering o’ Dering and his lady!” Hereupon, led by Mr. Potter’s stentorian voice and the Aged Soul’s shrill pipe, they cheered full-throated and with a will. “An’ now, neighbours, one more for old Pen, as be true Sussex through an’ through, barn an’ bred——” “Aye, cheer, ye fules!” shrilled the Aged Soul, flourishing his hat. “Beller for ol’ Pen, an’ dannel ’im as doan’t, says oi!” “Hoot-toot, Johnnie-man,” quoth Sir Hector as they crossed the little garden, “ye kept us waitin’ a’ the day whiles ye made up your mind, it seems-an’ me in ma vera best clo’es, y’ ken—but ’twas worth it, lad, and—why, what now?” For old Penelope had paused suddenly to take my lady’s hand to gaze on it through gathering tears and kiss it with strange fervour. “What, John—a ring?” exclaimed Sir Hector—“an’ a weddin’-ring, forbye—already? Why, man, doth it mean——” “Ah, Sir Hector,” cried old Penelope, “it do mean as the dead, as liveth for ever, hath spoke from beyond his grave ... it meaneth, God be praised, that true love is immortal indeed!” So, hand in hand, the old woman and the young entered the cottage. “But, Johnnie, wull ye be for tellin’ me that it means——?” “That they are married, sir,” answered the little Duchess—“wooed and won and wedded, sir! Which is great joy to me, for our Herminia hath found a man shall rule her rigorously at last; in a word, master her megrims, control, curb and constrain her contrariness as only a masterful man might.” “Wooed and won ... rule rigorously,” murmured Sir Hector, “curb and constrain——” “Well, sir, well, why must you mop and mow and mutter like a mere male? Wouldst not do the same, sir?”