"They cut their names and go away, and when the first child is born they come again and deepen the cuts. So for each child. That's how you know: the initials that go right through to the wood are the fathers and mothers of large families, and the scratches in the bark that soon close up are boys and girls who were never married at all." "You wonderful person! I've lived here all my life and never heard a word of this. Fancy folk-lore in Hertfordshire! I must tell the Archdeacon: he will be delighted----" "And Harcourt, I don't want this to stop." "My dear girl, the villagers will find other trees! There's nothing particular in Other Kingdom." "But----" "Other Kingdom shall be for us. You and I alone. Our initials only." His voice sank to a whisper. "I don't want it fenced in." Her face was turned to me; I saw that it was puzzled and frightened. "I hate fences. And bridges. And all paths. It is my wood. Please: you gave me the wood." "Why, yes!" he replied, soothing her. But I could see that he was angry. "Of course. But aha! Evelyn, the meadow's mine; I have a right to fence there--between my domain and yours!" "Oh, fence me out if you like! Fence me out as much as you like! But never in. Oh Harcourt, never in. I must be on the outside, I must be where any one can reach me. Year by year--while the initials deepen--the only thing worth feeling--and at last they close up--but one has felt them." "Our initials!" he murmured, seizing upon the one word which he had understood and which was useful to him. "Let us carve our initials now. You and I--a heart if you like it, and an arrow and everything. H.W.--E.B." "H.W.," she repeated, "and E.B." He took out his penknife and drew her away in search of an unsullied tree. "E.B., Eternal Blessing. Mine! Mine! My haven from the world! My temple of purity. Oh the spiritual exaltation--you cannot understand it, but you will! Oh, the seclusion of Paradise. Year after year alone together, all in all to each other--year after year, soul to soul, E.B., Everlasting Bliss!" He stretched out his hand to cut the initials. As he did so she seemed to awake from a dream. "Harcourt!" she cried, "Harcourt! What's that? What's that red stuff on your finger and thumb?" III Oh, my goodness! Oh, all ye goddesses and gods! Here's a mess. Mr. Worters has been reading Ford's inflammatory note-book. "This my own fault," said Ford. "I should have labelled it 'Practically Private.' How could he know he was not meant to look inside?" I spoke out severely, as an _employé_ should. "My dear boy, none of that. The label came unstuck. That was why Mr. Worters opened the book. He never suspected it was private. See--the label's off." "Scratched off," Ford retorted grimly, and glanced at his ankle. I affect not to understand. "The point is this. Mr. Worters is thinking the matter over for four-and-twenty hours. If you take my advice you will apologize before that time elapses." "And if I don't?"