We return to Nansie and Kingsley. They were still in Godalming. Nansie's father was buried, a quiet funeral, with only Nansie and Kingsley as mourners; the horse and caravan were sold, and the loving couple who were now to commence the battle of life in real, right-down earnest, had taken humble lodgings for a week or two, pending the serious question as to what they should do. Until after the funeral Nansie had no heart to write to her uncle in London. She had thought of acquainting him with the death of his brother, and asking him whether he would wish to attend the funeral, but the knowledge of the estrangement of the brothers during her father's lifetime, and a feeling of loyalty towards her father, who, in this estrangement, had been, in her belief, harshly treated, caused her to postpone the writing of her letter till the last sad offices were fulfilled. There was another reason. She feared that her uncle was a man of hard disposition, and that his resentment against his brother might find an outlet over the grave of the dear father she loved so well. This fear also sustained her. An inharmonious note springing from an unkind nature, during her days of fresh sorrow, an inharmonious note which might have been detected even when the dear remains were consigned to their last resting-place, would have been too painful to her to bear, and would, besides, have been a desecration. Therefore it was that many days passed by before Nansie communicated to her uncle the news of his brother's death.

Meanwhile Kingsley was busy thinking about the settling of his affairs. He had some belongings and a little money, and it was necessary that his debts should be paid.

"We will commence quite free, Nansie," he said, "then we shall know where we are, and how we stand."

"It will be best, Kingsley," said Nansie.

"We will wipe out the past, my dear," said Kingsley, "and commence with a new slate. That will cost nothing, being in a sense metaphorical."

She did not ask him if he felt regret that he had married her; she knew that he did not, but she would have been scarcely human had the thought not obtruded itself. Certainly nothing in Kingsley's manner denoted regret. He was cheerful, hopeful, confident, and, having sufficient for the present day, felt no fears for the future. That was probably because he had not had experience. His life hitherto had been pleasant and luxurious, with no troubles of money to harass him. A good education, a liberal allowance, having but to ask and receive--these easy ways were not a good education for adversity.

"There is a song I have often sung, Nansie, my dear," he said, lightly, "and the burden of it is, 'never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.' That is the plan we will follow."

"Yes, Kingsley," said Nansie, with a bright look; "it does not mean that we should not be prepared."

"Prepared!" he exclaimed, putting his arm round her waist and kissing her. "Of course we will be prepared. Leave everything to me; and don't have any fear that I shall miss anything."

"Are you sure, dear?"

"Am I sure? Well, upon my word! There is only one thing in the world I should miss, and that is you--with a thousand apologies for calling you a thing. So long as you are with me, with your bright eyes and sweet face, and that pretty bit of ribbon about your neck--I love to see you dressed like a lady; of course that will always be--so long as we are together as we are now, it isn't possible for me to miss anything, because my bonnie Annie Laurie is all the world to me. Then, you know, there is a charm in change, a positive charm in coming down a bit. There's pheasant now, and partridge and grouse, and pÂtÉ de foie gras--why, I've run away from them for a cut of rump steak. As for champagne, which I could have swam in--really, Nansie, swam in--why, I would rather have a bottle of Bass any day. There were some of the long walks I used to take with a chum or two. Well, we walk a dozen miles and pull up at quite a common little inn, and call for bitter--in the pewter, Nansie--and bread and cheese. Was there ever anything like it? Never. The best meal I ever sat down to was nothing in comparison. I would look at my chums, and my chums would look at me, and we would all agree that we never ate and drank anything with such a relish. It was true. We'll take long walks together, Nansie, you and I, and you will say the same. I must leave you to-morrow morning, you know, my dear, for a couple of days to settle up all my old debts. There's the stable bill--I shall have to sell my horse--and the jeweller's bill."

"Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, interrupting him.

"Yes, Nansie."

"This watch and chain was bought of the jeweller, was it not?"

She pointed to a pretty watch and chain she was wearing, which, with a locket, he had given to her on the morning they had disclosed to Nansie's father the secret of their marriage.

"Yes, my dear," he said, gayly.

"And was not paid for when you gave it to me?"

"And was not paid for," he repeated, in the same gay tone, "when I gave it to you. But," he added, "it will be before I return."

"Don't you think, Kingsley, dear, that it would be best for you to ask the jeweller to take it back? It will make your account lighter."

"What?" he cried. "Rob you of my own gift! Not likely, Nansie. Well, that is an idea to get into your head! And you call yourself practical!"

"I think it would be right, my dear, and I can do very well without it."

"And I think it would be wrong, and I am certain you could not do very well without it. And the locket, too--why, Nansie, it has my portrait in it!"

"I should like to keep the locket," said Nansie, opening it and gazing fondly at the handsome, smiling face of her lover and husband.

"I should think you would, indeed. Let me look at it. Upon my word, Nansie, it flatters me."

"It does not," said Nansie, energetically. "You are a great deal better-looking than the picture."

He laughed.

"Now it is you who are flattering; and, of course, you are only joking when you ask me to take the watch and chain back. Don't mention it again, there's a good girl. It gives me an uncomfortable feeling. Every lady has her watch and chain, and I should feel that mean if I saw you without one--well, there! don't let us talk about it. I shall be able to pay the jeweller. You don't know half the things I've got in my bachelor rooms; and just look at this diamond ring he wheedled me into buying for myself. Down in the bill for sixty pounds. To think I have never given you a ring!"

"Yes, you have, dear," said Nansie, kissing her wedding-ring.

"Of course, that," said Kingsley, taking her hand and kissing it, and keeping it clasped in his; "but I mean diamonds."

"I don't want diamonds, dear."

"Because you are the sweetest, most unselfish little wife that a fellow was ever blessed with. But confess, Nansie, now, you do like diamonds, don't you? No subterfuges, you know. I am your husband, and you mustn't deceive me. You do like them?"

"Yes, Kingsley; all women do, I think."

"And lace?"

"Yes, and lace."

"That's where it is," he said, in a tone of vexation, running his fingers through his hair. "I had my eye on a lovely ring, and such a brooch! I asked the jeweller to put them by for me."

"You will not get them now, Kingsley?" said Nansie, anxiously.

"No, I can't very well, and that is what vexes me. I look upon them as really yours, and as if I'd behaved meanly in not buying them for you. It is really a loss, for, you see, if I had bought them when I took a fancy to them, you would have had them, and I shouldn't have cause to reproach myself."

"Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, holding up a reproving forefinger, "you are, as my dear father used to say, illogical."

"Your dear father may have said it to you, my unreasonable darling, because logic is not by any means a feminine quality; but he would never have said it to me, because we men see deeper into things than you. I could prove to you incontestably, Nansie, that it is a positive loss that I did not buy that ring and brooch for you; but I don't want to make your head ache." He kissed her eyes and forehead and lips, as if these marks of affection were as powerful as any logic he could bring to bear upon the point in dispute. "However, what is done is done, and what we have to consider is not yesterday, but tomorrow."

"Yes, dear," said Nansie, hailing this more sensible turn, "that is what we have to consider."

"And we will consider it, dearest, in a practical, logical manner." Nansie, despite her anxiety, could not help smiling at this. "I am sure I am thinking of it all the night long."

(If this were so it must have been in his dreams, for he was an exceptionally sound sleeper, as Nansie well knew, by reason of her own mind being really disturbed by thoughts of the future.)

"What will have to be decided is what I am fit for and what I can do, and the thing then is," and Kingsley looked pleasantly around, as though he were addressing an audience, "to go and do it. Yes," he repeated, "to go and do it. You cannot deny, Nansie, my darling, that that is the practical way to go about it."

"Yes, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, with fond admiration, "that is the practical way."

"To buy another caravan," pursued Kingsley, "and a horse, and to fit it up comfortably with chairs and tables and beds, an easy-chair for you, my dear, and one for me; and a little library of books, and a piano--because there is nothing so pleasant on a beautiful evening in the woods, when the birds have settled in their nests and all nature is hushed and still, preparing by needful repose for the joyous life of to-morrow; there is nothing, I say, so pleasant as to sit by the side of a dear little wife while she plays the airs one loves best--but I am afraid there would not be room for a piano."

"I am afraid not, dear," said Nansie, humoring him.

"It is a pity. If it were too warm--being summer, my dear Nansie--to sit inside the caravan, we might move the piano into the open, where you could charm the birds from their nests. They could not resist the temptation of coming out to listen to the concert, and perhaps join in. Now, that would form a pretty picture. A gifted fellow could almost write verses on it. But it is not to be thought of, Nansie, is it?--I mean the piano, not the verses."

"I am afraid not, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, into whose heart was stealing a kind of pity--pity which had no terrors in it, but rather nerved her to courage, and was the germ of a new teaching in her gentle nature.

"I think you must admit, my dear," said Kingsley, taking her hand and patting it softly, "that the moment I perceive an idea, however enticing it may be, is not practical, I send it to the right about. As I do the piano. Away it goes, and I take off my hat to it with regret."

There was something so kindly and humorous in his speech, and in the expressions and gestures which accompanied it, that Nansie did not have the heart to check it or to dispute it with him.

"We should have to do without the piano, then; but it is hardly possible to live without music. Well, we could go to a church, or, better still, to a cathedral. That could easily be managed, for we could so arrange as to halt for the night near a cathedral town, and if we were a little late starting off the next day, it would not so much matter, our time being our own. Then, it might happen--stranger things happen, my dear, and in discussing a matter it is only fair to look at it from every aspect--it might happen that we hear of a concert to be given in a hall a dozen or twenty miles away. Away trots the horse at six or seven miles an hour--that would not be overworking it--and we arrive in time. I run into the town or city, or perhaps we pass through it, and I take tickets. We dress--properly, you know, Nansie--I in my swallowtail and white tie, you in your prettiest evening-dress, and off we start arm-in-arm. A fine evening, a pleasant walk of a mile, a most beautiful concert which we enjoy, and then the walk home, with stars and moon overhead, and the clouds forming a panorama of exquisite colors in lace-work through the branches of the trees. That is what I call true enjoyment, which, however, only lovers can properly appreciate. Would it not be perfect, Nansie?"

"Perfect," replied Nansie, for a moment carried away by his earnestness and eloquence; "a heaven upon earth."

"You can form no idea," said Kingsley, with a happy smile, "what delight you give me in agreeing with me upon such subjects. Though I should not say that; it half implies that we might possibly disagree upon our views for the future. When I first saw you I knew you thoroughly. I saw your sweet and beautiful nature in your eyes, and they are the loveliest eyes, my heart, that ever shone kindly upon man. 'Here,' said I to myself--Oh, you have no notion how I thought of you when I was alone! I used to walk up and down my room, speaking to you and listening for your answers; there are silent voices, you know, Nansie--'Here,' said I to myself, 'here is the sweetest and purest spirit that ever was embodied in woman. Here is one whose companionship through life would make earth a heaven'--exactly as you expressed it just now, my love--'and to win whom would be the most precious blessing which could fall to a fellow's lot. I love her, I love her, I love her!'"

"Oh, Kingsley!" murmured Nansie, laying her face on her husband's breast. His sincerity and simple earnestness--whatever the worldly practical value of the words he was uttering--carried her away into his land of dreams, and surely they were words so sweet and loving that no woman could listen to them unmoved.

"And if it be my happiness to win her," continued Kingsley, "I will prove myself worthy of her."

Nansie thought of the sacrifice of wealth and position he had made for her, a sacrifice not grudgingly but cheerfully made, and in the making of which he did not arrogate to himself any undue or unusual merit, and she murmured, as she pressed him fondly to her: "You have proved yourself more than worthy, my dearest dear. It is I, it is I who have to prove myself worthy of you!"

"That is not so," he said, gravely, but still holding the thread of his dreams; "it is the woman who stands upon the higher level; it is the man who must lift himself up to it, if he is a true man. Yes, my darling, even when I first saw you I used to think of you in the way I have described. Why, my dear, your face was ever before me; every little trick of expression with which you are sweetly gifted was repeated a hundred and a hundred times when I was alone and nobody nigh. And let me tell you, dear wife, you exercised an influence for good over me which I cannot well make clear to you. 'Why, Kingsley, old fellow,' the chums used to say, 'we expected you to our supper-party last night, and you never turned up. What has come over you?' I wasn't going to tell them what it was that kept me away. Not likely. The majority of fellows there, living the life we did, wouldn't understand it, and it isn't a thing you can beat into a fellow's head--it must come to a fellow, as it came to me, I'm thankful to say."

"Was there ever a man," thought Nansie, "who could say such sweet things as my Kingsley is saying to me?"

"To return to the caravan," said Kingsley. "I have no doubt you are perfectly familiar by this time, Mrs. Manners, with one of my great failings in conversation--flying off at a tangent upon the smallest provocation; but I always pick up my threads again, that you must admit. So I pick up the thread of the caravan we were discussing. You have put the matter of the piano so forcibly before me--although you are not a logician, my dear, I give you the credit of not being bad in an argument--that it is put quite aside, not to be reintroduced. There is one capital thing about a caravan, there are no taxes to pay, and no rent either. If a fellow could only get rid of butchers' bills now! You see, I know something about housekeeping. Well, but that is a good thing in caravans, isn't it, Nansie--no rent or taxes?"

"Yes, it is," replied Nansie; "but you must not forget, Kingsley, dear, that it is not summer all the year through."

"Forget it! Of course I don't forget it. There are fires, aren't there, Nansie? And don't you forget that I've been very careful in making the caravan water-tight. We should feel like patriarchs--young patriarchs, you know, though I've always looked upon them as old, every man Jack of them. When you say 'in the days of the patriarchs,' it sounds oldish--long white beards, and all that sort of thing."

"May I say something, Kingsley?"

"Certainly, my love."

"We should have to live."

"Why, of course, my dear. Do you think I have forgotten that? What do you take me for?"

"Whether we live in a house or a caravan we must have bread and milk and eggs--"

"And butter and bacon," interpolated Kingsley. "You see, I know."

"And clothes."

"And coffee--black coffee, very strong, that's how I like it."

"All these things would have to be paid for, Kingsley."

"I suppose so--I mean, of course, they must be."

"How, Kingsley, dear?"

"Ah, howl" he said, vaguely, drumming on the table with his fingers.

"That," said Nansie, with pretty decision, "is what we have to consider."

"Of course, of course. We are considering it. Is it your opinion that the caravan idea is not practicable?"

"Yes, Kingsley."

"Then away it goes," said Kingsley, with the air of a man from whom a great weight of responsibility has been suddenly lifted; "away it goes, with the piano, and the nice furniture, and the birds, and the wild flowers in the summer woods. I take off my hat to the caravan, though," he added, with a tendency to relapse, "I shall always regret it; the life would have been so beautiful and pleasant."

"We will endeavor," said Nansie, tenderly, "to make our life so in another way."

"Certainly we will, my dearest," responded Kingsley, heartily. "There are a thousand ways."

And yet he looked about now with a slight distress in his manner, as though he could not see an open door. But he soon shook off the doubt, and the next minute was the same blithe, bright being he had always been.

"Let us go for a walk, Nansie," he said.