Nell did not see her go, did not hear the mingled expressions of indignation and congratulation which buzzed round her. All she heard was Drake's "Nell! Nell! My dearest! my own!" as he put his arms round her and drew her head to his breast. Those persons who are fortunate enough to receive invitations to the summer and shooting parties, which Lord and Lady Angleford give at Anglemere, have very good reason to congratulate themselves; but those who are still more fortunate to receive a letter from Nell, asking them to spend a fortnight at the picturesque and "cottagy" house which Drake has built at a certain out-of-the-way spot in Devonshire called Shorne Mills, go about pluming themselves as if they had drawn one of the prizes in life's lottery. For only very intimate and dear friends are asked to Shorne Mills. The house is not large. With the exception of the grooms, there are no menservants; there is no state, and very little formality; life there is mostly spent in the open air, in that delicious mixture of sea and moorland air in which everyday worries and anxieties do not seem able to exist. At The Cottage no one finds time hanging heavily on his or her hands; no one is bored. It is a small Liberty Hall. There are horses to ride; there are tramps to be taken across the heather-scented hills; there are yachting and fishing in the bay, and there is always light-hearted laughter round and about the house--especially when her ladyship's brother, Mr. Dick Lorton, is present; and he and the famous musician, Mr. Falconer, always come down together, and remain while the family occupy The Cottage. There, too, the dowager countess is always a regular visitor; indeed, Nell and she are very seldom apart, for, if the countess could tear herself away from Nell, she certainly could not leave the baby son and heir, who is as often in her arms as in his mother's. Here, too, come, every year, the Wolfers. In fact, to sum it up, the party is composed of Nell's and Drake's dearest and tried friends, and they one and all have grown to love Shorne Mills almost as keenly as Nell and Drake themselves do. Nell is proud of Anglemere, and the other places which her husband has inherited, but there is a certain corner in her heart which is reserved for the little fishing place in which she first saw, and learned to love, "Drake Vernon." Watch them as they go down the steep and narrow way to the pier. It is a July evening; the sun is still bright, but the shadows are casting a purple tint on the hills beyond the moor; a faint breeze ripples the opaline bay; the fishing boats are gliding in like "painted ships on a painted ocean"; the tinkle of the cow bells mingles with the shrill cry of the curlew and the guillemot. The _Seagull_ lies at anchor in the bay ready to sail at a moment's notice. But Drake does not signal for the dinghy as Nell and he reach the pier, for, though they are going for a sail, it is not in the stately yacht.