Days flew by, and still the young officer lingered at Knockshin. Like the fairy prince in the enchanted wood, he could discover no exit. Croquet had developed into short strolls, short strolls into long walks, long walks into excursions. His arm was getting strong again. Mr. Joyce talked “soldier” with him. He had been in the Connaught Rangers, and went through pipe-clay and the orderly book with the freshness of a “sub” of six weeks’ standing. Mary—what did she speak about? Anything, everything, nothing. Latterly she had been eloquently silent, while Percy Bingham, if he did not actually, might have fairly, counted the beatings of his heart as it bumped against his ribs. They spoke more at than to each other, and when their eyes met the glance was withdrawn by both with electrical rapidity. It was the old, old story. Why repeat it here? “Mary, Jack Bodkin, your old sweetheart, is coming over for a few days’ fishing,” exclaimed Mr. Joyce one morning upon the arrival of the letter-bag. Miss Joyce blushed scarlet—a blush that will not be put off; a blush that plunges into the hair, comes out on the eyelids, and sets the ears upon fire—and Percy Bingham, as she grew red, became deadly white. The knell had rung, the hour had come. “This is from the colonel,” extending a letter as he spoke, the words choking him, “and—and I must say good-by.” “Sorry for it, Bingham, but duty is duty. No chance of an extension?” asked Joyce. “None, sir.” And _she_ said not a word. There was crushing bitterness in this. Mr. Bodkin’s arrival blotted out _his_ departure. Would that he had never seen Knockshin or Mary! No, he could not think that, and, now that he was about to leave her, he felt what that severance would cost him. The car was waiting with his _impedimenta_, and he sought her to say farewell. She was not in the conservatory or drawing-room, and as a last chance he tried the library. Entering noiselessly, he found Mary Joyce leaning her head upon her hands, her hands upon the mantel-piece and sobbing as if her heart would break. “I beg your pardon!” he stammered. “Is—is—anything the—” “A bad toothache,” she burst in passionately, without looking up. What could he do? What could he say? “I—I—do not know how to apologize for—for—intruding upon your anguish”—the words came very slowly, swelling, too, in his throat—“but I cannot, _cannot_ leave without wishing you good-by and thanking _you_ for the sunniest hours of my life.” “You—you are g-going, then?” without looking round. “I go to—to make room for Mr. Bodkin.” She faced him. Her eyes were red and swollen, but down, down in their liquid depths he beheld—something that young men find once in a lifetime. He never remembered what he did, he never recollected what he said, but the truth came out as such truths will come out. “And to think that you first learned of my existence through the medium of a pitiful ball-dress!” she said, glowing with beautiful happiness.