He was playing a strange tune that pattered on the silence like rain. It was the song of the man who has dreamed of love, who has wakened at last to find it only a dream, and that he lies with empty arms on a hard bed--and then suddenly realises that he has before him that which is sweeter than sleep and dreams--the joy of the day's work. He played the Prelude of the Day's Work, through which would trill the magic memory of love--love, which is so much sweeter in memory and in dream than in realisation. At last he put aside his violin, and going over to Janey, he knelt down by her and kissed her tired face. "Oh, Nigel ... Nigel!" "You'll come with me to London, and help me in my new life?" "I want a new life too." "We'll start one together." "And--and you'll play the devil out of me when he comes?" "Always--and we won't have any secrets from each other, Janey." She smiled faintly. Her brother always amused her when he spoke of secrets. There was silence for some minutes. The moon was leaving the window, climbing high among the stars. A little wind began to flutter round Sparrow Hall, whispering and throbbing. "I'm tired," said Janey. "You must go to bed." "Yes." "And you'll dream of the life you and I are going to live together--of success for me, and happiness for you." She rose and put her hands on his shoulders. "Good-night, lad." "Good-night. I think I'm going to bed too. I think I can sleep to-night. But before we go we must drink a toast, Janey." "A toast!--to whom?" "To--to two people who we thought were going to make you and me happy--but are going to make each other happy instead." She did not answer for a moment. She and her brother stood facing each other in the strange freak of lamplight and moonlight. Then she said-- "Yes. We must _want_ them to be happy, Nigel." He turned to the uncleared supper-table and poured out some of the red wine that Janey drank in these days of her weakness. "We'll drink to their happiness, old sister. We won't go whining and grudging because it isn't ours. Besides, we're going to have it some day--we'll make a new lot of our own." "Yes, Nigel"--Janey's eyes had kindled--"we're not going to grudge them what they've got, or be envious and mean." They faced each other across the table. The wind gave a sudden little sigh round Sparrow Hall--blustered--and was still. "A toast!" cried Nigel, lifting his glass, "a toast!--To those who've got what we have lost." THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Three Furlongers, by Sheila Kaye-Smith