It was a warm September afternoon; everything in the old garden--the lichen-tinted brick walls, the autumnal flowers, the deep velvet of the turf, the foliage slightly touched with red and gold--looked mellow and peaceful. Under the shadow of a tall elm-tree, whose topmost boughs were swaying with the movement, and resounding with the caw of rooks, Martin Bransby reclined on a long chair, and his wife sat on a garden bench a yard or two away. When she saw Owen approaching, Mrs. Bransby laid her finger on her lips, and then Owen saw that Mr. Bransby was asleep. The old man lay with his head supported on a crimson cushion, against which his abundant silver hair was strongly relieved. The brows above the closed eyelids were still dark. The placidity of repose enhanced the beauty of his finely moulded features; but he was very pale, and his cheeks and temples looked worn and thin. Mrs. Bransby welcomed Owen with a smile and an outstretched hand. At the first glance he had thought that she, too, looked pale and suffering, but the little glow of animation in her face when she spoke effaced this impression. "Am I disturbing you?" asked Owen in a whisper. "No, no; sit down. You need not whisper, it is enough to speak low; he sleeps heavily. I am so glad to see him sleep, for his nights have been restless lately." As Mrs. Bransby spoke, she pushed aside a heap of gay-coloured silks with which she was embroidering a rich velvet cushion, and made room for Owen on the garden-seat beside her. "I know your news already," she continued, "and I must congratulate you, although you will be sadly missed. My boys will be in despair; we shall all miss you." "I am glad, at all events, that you seem to approve of the step I have taken." "Of course. All your friends must approve it. "Well, they are not so numerous as to make their unanimity absolutely impossible." Then, after a short silence, during which Mrs. Bransby resumed her embroidery, and Owen thoughtfully raked together some fallen leaves with his stick, he said-- "But you don't know the extent of my good fortune. There is a chance--rather a remote one, but still a chance--that this employment may lead to more, and that I may get some work to do in South America." She started, and the gay embroidery fell from her hands on to the grass, as she exclaimed with plaintive, down-drawn lips, like those of a child, "Oh, not to South America! Don't go so far away!" He merely shook his head. "Oh, that is terrible!" she said. "I never thought of that! But, perhaps, you will not go." "Very much, 'perhaps.' It would be better luck than I could expect." "And you really could have the heart to leave us all, and go off to the other side of the globe? Oh, I can't bear to think of it!" "Don't speak so kindly! You will take away all my courage," he said, looking for a moment at the beautiful eyes fixed on his face.