The years glided placidly by, bringing no more great or violent developments into the lives of Kingston and Gundred. Five years after the fire at Brakelond Gundred bore a son, but otherwise little occurred to break the monotonous tenor of their days. Isabel, by now, was almost forgotten. Only Kingston retained his faithful worship of her, cherishing it secretly, far down under the loyal surface of his life, feeling that justice allowed him at least so much of compensation. From day to day he longed for her and listened unceasingly for some far-off echo of her voice. It seemed almost as if she had never been, as if she had left no relic of her existence in the world--except, perhaps, by a quaint freak of fortune, in the life of that Mrs. Restormel to whom Gundred had taken her on that fateful visit. For Mrs. Restormel, overcome with the horror of the news from Brakelond, had been so excited that her hour had come upon her unawares. Out of due time she had been delivered of her child, and a boy had made his appearance in the world only twelve hours after Isabel had quitted it. However, the Restormel baby prospered and grew strong, was christened by the family name of Ivor, and passed successfully through the vicissitudes of childhood. Otherwise, as Kingston Darnley felt, Isabel had come and gone, leaving no other trace in the world than that persistent image which her life had established in his own soul. The restless heat of youth had died down in Kingston as in Gundred. His son was growing from boyhood towards manhood. Unnoticed the years had flowed away till almost a quarter of a century had rippled by since the passing of Isabel. He himself was growing fixed and solid; grey was developing itself in his heart as in his hair. Life was very level and very comfortable and very pleasant. It was no longer stimulating. As for Gundred, the years had less effect either on her nature or on her appearance. She was one of the women who neither shrink nor swell with age. She had not grown fat; she had not grown thin. Possibly she had dried up a little. The freshness was gone from her features, though not their neat prettiness. They had grown perhaps a trifle wooden in their clear and rather hard perfection. Tiny lines had drawn themselves here and there, especially round the mouth. Otherwise her face had changed wonderfully little. The alteration was in its spirit rather than in its form. It was still strangely young for its years, but now it was far more decisive than before, older in experience, more matronly, more righteous. All her points had intensified, and now she had turned from a very pretty bride to a very pretty wife, full of responsibilities well borne, of interests, charities, benevolence. Her child, her schools, her households, her Primrose League gave abundance of occupation to her life, and more and more for her growing sense of excellence to feed on. From duty she never flinched or flagged; the