But this was long after the uneventful Tuesday, when Simpson entered, with a salver; and, finding Jane enveloped in the Times, said: "A telegram for you, miss." Nurse Rosemary took it; apologised for the interruption, and opened it. It was from the duchess, and ran thus: MOST INCONVENIENT, AS YOU VERY WELL KNOW; BUT AM LEAVING EUSTON TO-NIGHT. WILL AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS AT ABERDEEN. Nurse Rosemary smiled, and put the telegram into her pocket. "No answer, thank you, Simpson." "Not bad news, I hope?" asked Garth. "No," replied Nurse Rosemary; "but it makes my departure on Thursday imperative. It is from an old aunt of mine, who is going to my 'young man's' home. I must be with him before she is, or there will be endless complications." "I don't believe he will ever let you go again, when once he gets you back," remarked Garth, moodily. "You think not?" said Nurse Rosemary, with a tender little smile, as she took up the paper, and resumed her reading. The second telegram arrived after luncheon. Garth was at the piano, thundering Beethoven's Funeral March on the Death of a Hero. The room was being rent asunder by mighty chords; and Simpson's smug face and side-whiskers appearing noiselessly in the doorway, were an insupportable anticlimax. Nurse Rosemary laid her finger on her lips; advanced with her firm noiseless tread, and took the telegram. She returned to her seat and waited until the hero's obsequies were over, and the last roll of the drums had died away. Then she opened the orange envelope. And as she opened it, a strange thing happened. Garth began to play The Rosary. The string of pearls dropped in liquid sound from his fingers; and Nurse Rosemary read her telegram. It was from the doctor, and said: SPECIAL LICENSE EASILY OBTAINED. FLOWER AND I WILL COME WHENEVER YOU WISH. WIRE AGAIN. The Rosary drew to a soft melancholy close. "What shall I play next?" asked Garth, suddenly. "Veni, Creator Spiritus," said Nurse Rosemary; and bowed her head in prayer. CHAPTER XXXIII "SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN!" Wednesday dawned; an ideal First of May: Garth was in the garden before breakfast. Jane heard him singing, as he passed beneath her window. "It is not mine to sing the stately grace, The great soul beaming in my lady's face." She leaned out. He was walking below in the freshest of white flannels; his step so light and elastic; his every movement so lithe and graceful; the only sign of his blindness the Malacca cane he held in his hand, with which he occasionally touched the grass border, or the wall of the house. She could only see the top of his dark head. It might have been on the terrace at Shenstone, three years before. She longed to call from the window; "Darling--my Darling! Good morning! God bless you to-day."