But at last some measure of order was restored: the babel of voices and laughter ceased; the last door banged for the last time: the last light was extinguished, and by-and-by all the house was still. John, too, retired to bed, but only to toss feverishly from side to side, with throbbing head and leaping pulses. Now he would thrill with delight as he recalled the kind look which Lady Lucy had cast upon him when he bade her good night: now a pang of despair would pierce his very soul as he thought of how she would leave on the morrow, and of how, in all probability, he would never set eyes on her again. He rose with dawn and went out of doors; his men would soon arrive, but, before allotting them their daily tasks, he sought to regain some measure of his usual composure. Pacing up and down the garden at the rear of the house—if in truth the sweet wilderness of tangled greenery and lush grass, and borders where flowers and weed embraced each other might be dignified with such a name—he inhaled the pure chill air of the September morning, throwing open coat and waistcoat as though the fresh blast could allay the fever in his breast. The swallows were already on the wing, now circling aloft against the pearly sky, now dipping until they appeared to brush the dewy grass; a robin was piping on a lichened apple-bough, and to poor John Cotley the sweet shrill notes seemed to carry a message at once poignant and delightful. “Why did she come here!” he groaned; and in another moment he was asking himself distractedly how he had contrived to exist before seeing her.