"You shall not leave the room till I am asleep. Marry whom you like except my nephew. If he marries you he is a beggar by it. I am tired of talking. I will take my medicine." She empties the glass, and sinks back on her pillow. The medicine is an opiate, but even while she yields to its influence, she continues to murmur, in a tone so low that only Nelly now can hear her. "Marriage, indeed! As if he means it, and as if, meaning it even, he dared to thwart me! A pair of fools! They will rue the day!" Thus she mutters until sleep overpowers her, and she takes her theme with her into the land of dreams. Mr. Temple steals from his hiding-place. "She is in a sweet temper," he says in a whisper, placing his hands on Nelly's shoulders, and drawing her to him. "I was very nearly coming forward and spoiling everything; but I couldn't afford to do it. Nelly, I want to know about that gardener's son." She yields to his embrace for a moment, then draws away. "I can tell you nothing now. Go, for my sake, lest she should awake." "For your sake, then. Do not forget. In an hour, by the brook." "I ought not to come." "You have promised," he says, in a louder tone. "Hush--hush!" she entreats. "Yes, I will come." Before the hour has passed, he has appeased his hunger, and is standing by the brook, waiting for Nelly. The night is most peaceful and lovely, and Mr. Temple, as he smokes his cigar, pays homage to it in an idle way, and derives a patronising pleasure from the shadows in the starlit waters. His thoughts are not upon the graceful shapes, although his eyes behold them. What, then, does he see in their place? Do the floating reflections bear a deeper meaning to his senses than they would convey under ordinary conditions? Does he see any foreshadowing of the future there? No. His thoughts are all upon the present, and what he beholds is merely tinged with such poetry as springs from animal sentiment. He may trick himself into a finer belief, but he cannot alter its complexion. He is in an ineffably pleasant mood, and his pulses are stirred by just that feeling of pleasurable excitement which sheds a brighter gloss on all surrounding things. At the sound of a step behind him he smiles and his heart beats faster. "It is Nelly," he whispers. But when he turns, and confronts the gardener's son, the smile leaves his face. "I ask your pardon, sir," says the young man, "can I have a word with you?" "Ah!" says Mr. Temple, with a look of curiosity at the young fellow, "you are the gardener's son." "Yes, sir." Mr. Temple regards the intruder attentively, and says, rather haughtily: "You have selected a singular time for a conference." "I must speak to you now, sir." "Must?" "If you please, sir." "By-and-by will not do?" "By-and-by may be too late, sir." Mr. Temple looks at the gardener's son still more earnestly. "Attend to what I am about to say, young man. You have lived all your life at Springfield, I believe?" "I was born here, sir."