His teeth were white, and his eyes stirred like dark liquor as he smiled. “Here is my wedding present!” I stood the four large water-colours along the wall before him. They were drawings among the waters and the fields of the mill, grey rain and twilight, morning with the sun pouring gold into the mist, and the suspense of a midsummer noon upon the pond. All the glamour of our yesterdays came over him like an intoxicant, and he quivered with the wonderful beauty of life that was weaving him into the large magic of the years. He realised the splendour of the pageant of days which had him in train. “It’s been wonderful, Cyril, all the time,” he said, with surprised joy. We drove away through the freshness of the wood, and among the flowing of the sunshine along the road. The cottages of Greymede filled the shadows with colour of roses, and the sunlight with odour of pinks and the blue of corn flowers and larkspur. We drove briskly up the long, sleeping hill, and bowled down the hollow past the farms where the hens were walking with the red gold cocks in the orchard, and the ducks like white cloudlets under the aspen trees revelled on the pond. “I told her to be ready any time,” said George—“but she doesn’t know it’s to-day. I didn’t want the public-house full of the business.” The mare walked up the sharp little rise on top of which stood the “Ram Inn.” In the quiet, as the horse slowed to a standstill, we heard the crooning of a song in the garden. We sat still in the cart, and looked across the flagged yard to where the tall madonna lilies rose in clusters out of the alyssome. Beyond the border of flowers was Meg, bending over the gooseberry bushes. She saw us and came swinging down the path, with a bowl of gooseberries poised on her hip. She was dressed in a plain, fresh holland frock, with a white apron. Her black, heavy hair reflected the sunlight, and her ripe face was luxuriant with laughter. “Well, I never!” she exclaimed, trying not to show that she guessed his errand. “Fancy you here at this time o’ morning!” Her eyes, delightful black eyes like polished jet, untroubled and frank, looked at us as a robin might, with bright questioning. Her eyes were so different from the Saxton’s: darker, but never still and full, never hesitating, dreading a wound, never dilating with hurt or with timid ecstasy. “Are you ready then?” he asked, smiling down on her. “What?” she asked in confusion. “To come to the registrar with me—I’ve got the licence.” “But I’m just going to make the pudding,” she cried, in full expostulation. “Let them make it themselves—put your hat on.” “But look at me! I’ve just been getting the gooseberries. Look!” she showed us the berries, and the scratches on her arms and hands. “What a shame!” he said, bending down to stroke her hand and her arm. She drew back smiling, flushing with joy. I could smell the white lilies where I sat.