August melted into September, and September drew to its close. Admiral Concannon and Etta and all the boys and girls, save Tommy, had gone, and Huckaby was busy with the repacking of books and specimens. The weather had broken. The trees dripped with rain and the leaves began to fall. Mists rose from the meadows by the river and a blue haze, sweet and sad, enveloped the low-lying hills. In the garden the sunflowers, a week before so glorious, hung their heads with a dying grace. The birds, even the thrushes, were mute. The hour under the cedar tree had become the hour of deepening twilight by the fireside. The idyll was over. London called. . . . * * * * * They had been sitting before the drawing-room fire for a long time without speaking. Sheila, with a toy shop and an army of dolls for customers, played on the floor between them, absorbed in her game. No one of the three noticed that darkness had crept into the room, for the fire leaped and flamed, throwing on them fierce lights and shadows. “The day after to-morrow,” said Clementina, breaking the silence, and looking intently at the blaze. “Yes,” said Quixtus. “The day after to-morrow.” “I think you’ll find I’ve made all arrangements for Sheila, Atkins understands.” Atkins was the nurse. “I’ve seen about the nursery fender which I had overlooked. . . . You mustn’t let Atkins bully you, or she’ll get out of hand. . . . How these three months have flown!” “If you didn’t insist,” said Quixtus, “I wouldn’t take her from you. But you’ll miss her terribly.” “So will you when my turn comes again,” replied Clementina gruffly. “What’s the good of talking rubbish?” There was another silence. He glanced at her, and a sudden flame from the fire lit up her face and he saw that her brows were bent and her mouth set grimly tight and that something glistened for a second on each cheek and then fell quickly. And each time he glanced at her he saw the same glistening drop fall. “Uncle Ephim,” said Sheila coming and insinuating herself between his legs, “Mrs. Brown wants to buy some matches and I haven’t got any.” He gave her his silver match-box and Sheila went away happy to her game. Clementina choked a sob. “My dear,” said he, at last. “Yes?” said Clementina. “Why shouldn’t we have her always with us?” “You mean——?” said Clementina, after a pause, and still looking into the fire. “Even with her, I can’t face that great lonely house. I can’t face my empty, lonely existence. My dear,” said he, bending forward in his chair; “it has come to this—that I can’t think a thought or feel an emotion without you becoming inextricably interwoven with it. You have grown into the texture of my life. I know I may be impertinent and presumptuous in putting such a proposal before you——” “You haven’t put one yet,” said Clementina. “It is that you would do me the honour of marrying me,” replied Quixtus.