"There was no urgent business!" I blurted out. "The telegram was a lie!" She wrinkled up her forehead again, in that altogether adorable way of her own. "Indeed?" she said. "And why should you send me a lie?" I dropped the cigar which I was holding, and ground it into the mud with my boot. "I heard you were married," I said hoarsely. There was a moment's silence, and then, as I live, she began to laugh. "Oh!" she said, "that accounts for the telegram! But it seems a poor reason for wasting a cigar." I stared at her dully. "I suppose I must appear a particularly ludicrous sort of idiot," I said. "My only excuse is that I can't help it. Good-bye!" She put out one hand, as though to stop me. "Before you go," she said gently, "you might tell me when I was married. After all, it's only natural that I should be a little interested in the matter." I clutched hold of the gate. Everything except her face had suddenly become dim and distant. "Do you mean--do you mean to say that it's a mistake?" I gasped. "There are some people," she answered mischievously, "who say that marriage is always a mistake." "But George--Barton--Congreve," I stammered. "You have not got his Christian names quite right," she interrupted. "They are Walter Vernon. I know, you see, because he happens to be my brother-in-law." "Then you're not married?" I shouted wildly. "No," she said. "But isn't it a little unnecessary to inform the entire neighbourhood of the fact?" I laid my head down on the gate, and relieved my feelings in an insane outburst of laughter. When I felt better, I straightened myself and wiped my eyes. "George is responsible," I said. "He came home yesterday and told me that you were." "Untruthfulness," she answered, smiling, "seems to play an important part in the simple life." "He had described you to a man called Barton," I explained, "and the scoundrel had pronounced you to be Mrs. Congreve." "Ah," she said, "my sister also has red hair. She and Walter came down this afternoon. But for the urgent business, you would have met them at tea." I looked at her for a moment, and then suddenly all the ridiculous little trimmings of life whisked away into the infinite. I opened the gate, and took the milk-jug out of her hands. "I love you!" I said simply. "That is very nice of you," she answered; "but do be careful with the milk." "I love you," I repeated, with firmness, "and I want you to marry me." The corners of her mouth twitched divinely. "This," she said, "is no place for a proposal. If you really want to marry me, you must come up to Otter's Holt, and woo me properly." But her eyes had given me my answer. His Reverence