The world contained no happier man. Sunrise in a glorious English summer and a grand old English garden, on the day after the Day of Days. He trod on air as he lived over again every second of that wonderful over-night scene, and scarcely realized the impossible truth. Lucille loved him, as a lover! Lucille the _alter ego_, the understanding, splendid friend; companion in play and work, in idle gaiety and serious consideration; the _bon camarade_, the real chum and pal. Life was a Song, the world a Paradise, the future a long-drawn Glory. He would like to go and hold the Sword in his hand for a minute, and—something seemed to stir beneath his foot, and a shudder ran through his powerful frame. The brightness of the morning was dimmed, and then Lucille came towards him blushing, radiant, changed, and all was well with the world, and God in high heaven. After breakfast they again walked in the garden, the truly enchanted garden, and talked soberly with but few endearments though with over-full hearts, and with constant pauses to eye the face of the other with wondering rapture. They came of a class and a race not given to excessive demonstrativeness, but each knew that the other loved—for life. In the afternoon, guests began to arrive soon after lunch, duties usurped the place of pleasures, and the lovers met as mere friends in the crowd. There was meaning in the passing glances, however, and an occasional hand-touch in the giving of tennis-ball, or tea-cup. “Half the County” was present, and while the younger fry played tennis, croquet, clock-golf, and bowls, indulged in “mixed cricket,” or attempted victory at archery or miniature-rifle shooting, the sedate elders strolled o’er velvet lawns beneath immemorial elms, sat in groups, or took tea by carpet-spread marquees. Miss Amelia Harringport, seeing Dam with a croquet-mallet in his hand, observed that she _adored_ croquet. Dam stated in reply that Haddon Berners was a fearful dog at it, considered there should be a croquet Blue in fact, and would doubtless be charmed to make up a set with her and the curate, the Reverend William Williamson Williams (Holy Bill), and Another. Dam himself was cut off from the bliss of being the Other—did not know the game at all. Miss Amelia quickly tired of her croquet with the Haddock, Holy Bill and the Vicar’s Wife’s Sister, who looked straitly after Holy Bill on this and all other occasions. Seeing Dam shepherding a flock of elders to the beautifully-mown putting-tracks radiating from the central circle of “holes” for the putting competition, she informed him that she _adored_ putting, so much so that she wanted lessons from him, the local amateur golf-champion. “I just want a little _personal tuition_ from the Champion and I shall be quite a classy putter,” she gurgled. “I will personally tuit,” replied Dam, “and when you are tuited we will proceed to win the prize.”