“Ah,” said Miss Upton shaking hands with him, “I congratulate Mr. Denmead very warmly. And to think that the third volume which you were to have sent me in America should greet me here by the banks of the Avon! It is delightful!” “You have not gone back as soon as you expected,” said Evereld. “Well, no. You see the storm at Glion somehow cleared the atmosphere and many things were altered by it sooner or later,” said Miss Upton her bright eyes twinkling with fun. “In fact, thanks to you, another romance began there, and next year when Mr. Lewisham has taken his degree at Oxford, why he’ll be coming over the ocean to New York, and we have an idea of following the good example which you and Mr. Denmead have set us. “How glad I am!” said Evereld. “That is charming. Some day we all four ought to meet at Glion, for it is hard that I should have any disagreeable associations left with that lovely little place. You ought to see it Ralph.” “Why not plan a meeting here on one of Shakspere’s birthday’s? We may possibly be here for some of the performances in the Memorial theatre.” “Yes, that’s a better idea still,” agreed both Evereld and the American girl. And after walking back to the town together they parted on the best of terms. That evening a note and a little packet were brought to Evereld. They were from Miss Upton. “Just one line in great haste,” the letter ran, “we are off to Woodstock to-night, being as they call us true Yankee rushers. You told me you were not going to set up house yet awhile, but wherever you are I know you will drink afternoon tea as you did in Switzerland. Stir your tea with these Stratford Memorial spoons and drink to our next merry meeting in the birthplace of the Swan of Avon. With all good wishes “Yours cordially, “Minnie K. Upton. “I hope my romance will have as satisfactory an end to its third Volume as yours.” “What a jolly sort of girl she seems,” said Ralph as Evereld read him the note, “but that postscript is all wrong, darling. We are not at the end of things, we are only just at the beginning.” CHAPTER XXXII “Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires? O heart, are you great enough for love? I have heard of thorns and briers.” Tennyson.