'But,' Hazel began again,—'to do that,—for every little drop to do that—there must be a head of water. It is not the mere trickling down of something which happens to be at the top!'—Whereupon the little fingers took an extra knot. 'Each drop may do the ministry of one, may it not?' said Rollo. 'You need not count the drops. The only thing is that they be living water.' 'Yes, the living water comes with a will. I remember,—in Mme. Lasalle's brook,—how busy the drops were. Not in a hurry, but in such sweet haste.' 'True!' said Dr. Arthur. 'Each with a clear bright purpose, if not a plan.' 'Perhaps, best not the plan,' said Rollo. She stood gravely thinking for a moment, then looked up and shook hands with Dr. Arthur, wishing him good night. But no words came when she gave her hand to Mr. Rollo; only—perhaps in default of words—a beautiful, vivid blush. The room to which the old Norsewoman conducted her was a very plain little place, with whitewashed walls and the simplest of furniture. Gyda manifested some concern lest her guest should suffer for want of a fire. 'But the gentlemen had to have the other room,' she said. 'O the fire is no matter,' said Hazel. 'But where do you sleep—with such a houseful?' 'I have my little nest just by, my lady. I'd be glad to keep it! And yet this is a strange place for my lad to have his home; and it's been his home now for a year, nearly. How much longer will I keep him, my lady?' Gyda asked the most tremendous questions with a sort of privileged simplicity; she looked now for her answer. 'Keep him?'—Hazel repeated the words in a maze. 'Yes, my lady. I know I must lose my lad from _this_ home; but when is it to be?' 'A great while—I don't know,—nobody knows,' said Hazel very much disturbed. 'Nobody thinks anything about it yet. So you need not even recollect it, Mrs. Boërresen.' Gyda looked at her with a tender, incredulous, pleased smile upon her face. 'Do you think he will wait a great while, my lady?' she said. And then she came up and kissed Wych Hazel's hand, and went away. CHAPTER XIII. UNDER THE CHESTNUT TREES. Mr. Falkirk did not go out to breakfast that Sunday morning; and no one at Chickaree but the two old retainers knew how Miss Wych had tired herself, nor where she had rested overnight. Monday came and went in uneventful rain, and Tuesday was the day of the party in the woods.