"_You can have no idea how I miss you, Reginald, and every day you are absent seems to part us further from one another. The business which took you up to London must surely be completed by this time, so if you love me, as I know you do, come back at once to Garsworth, and we will be married as soon as is compatible with decorum after the death of your father. Then we can travel on the Continent for a time, and I being by your side will no longer feel this terrible anxiety for your welfare which now constantly haunts me. Although I know your own instincts will always lead you to do what is right and just, both towards yourself and your friends, yet I dread the influence of that dangerous London, against whose temptations even the strongest nature cannot prevail. This is the first request I have ever made to you, dear Reginald, and I feel sure you will grant it. So come back at once to me, and remember I shall count every moment of time until I see you once more by my side_." When he came to this part of the letter, Reginald laid it aside and began to think over the words Una had written. Yes!--she was quite right--it was better for him in every way to go back to Garsworth, and leave this feverish, unreal existence which he was now leading. He would return once more to the old familiar life, with its gentle simplicity and pleasant delights--the rising in the early grey of the morning, the matutinal run with the dogs across the breezy common--then, later on in the day, he would meet Una, and stroll with her through the quiet village streets, where everyone knew and loved them both, from the ancient grandmother basking in the sunshine to the prattling child tottering after them for notice with unsteady gait. No fog--no dreary rattle of cabs--no hoarse cries of news-boy and fish-vendor--but the bright beautiful, blue sky, with the golden sun shining, and a moist keen wind blowing from the distant fen-lands, filled with strange cold odours stolen from hidden herbs. And in the evening he would sing to her--sing those charming old ballads of Phyllis and Daphne, and Lady Bell--which he had not sung for so many days--or perhaps they would listen to the ponderous conversation of Dr. Larcher, with its classical flavouring of Horace.