It was sunset when at last they rose from the fallen log. To Wynifred it was as though every cloud of trouble had melted away out of her sky. Grief was grief no longer when shared with Claud. His sympathy was so perfect and so tender. It seemed to both of them as if their betrothal were no new thing, as if, in some prior state of being, they had been, as he expressed it, made to fit each other.

"Vaguely, I believe I always felt it," he said. "I was always at ease with you. You suited me. I felt you understood me; at times it almost seemed as if you must be thinking with my brain, so wonderfully similar were the workings of our minds. Wyn, we can never be unhappy, you and I, whatever our lot. We are independent of fate so long as we have each other. I wonder how many engaged couples arrive deliberately at that conclusion?"

"I did not think you would ever arrive at it," said Wyn, smiling. "I thought you were a Sybarite, Claud."

"You thought right—I was. But by habit, not by nature. It was Henry Fowler who awoke me to a sense of my own contemptibility. God bless him."

"God bless him," echoed the girl, softly.

"Look!" cried Claud, "how the sun catches the windows of the farm-house, and makes them flame. So they looked the first evening I ever saw them—before I knew you, my darling. Shall we go and tell Mrs. Battishill that we mean to get married? She will be so pleased."

"Ah, yes, do. I had no heart to go and see her, the place was so full of memories of you. But now!"

It was quite dark when Henry, who had been smoking at the open door of Lower House, heard Claud's quick footfall cross the bridge.

"Well, lad," said he, as the young man came buoyantly towards him, "I'm to congratulate you, I know. There's triumph in your very step."

"I'm about as happy as it's possible for a man to be," said Claud simply, as he gave him his hand. "I believe I should be too happy if it were not for the thought of you."

"Don't you fret for me," was the steady answer.

The moon was up, and threw a clear light on Claud's features as he stood bareheaded, just against the porch. Moved by a sudden impulse of affection, Henry laid his hand on the fair hair, and drew it closer, till it rested against his sturdy shoulder.

"Claud," he said, "I believe I care more for you two than for any other living creatures. I know you will find your best happiness together, so I'll just not intrude my feelings on you any more. My head's full of plans for you, lad. Do you care to hear them?"

"I should rather think so. Fowler, what a brick you are!"

"Glad you think so. Now, listen. You'll accept that post of overseer I offered you?"

"I should like it of all things."

"Very well, then. I'll build you a house for my wedding gift. She can choose her own site, for most of the land round here is mine, as you know; and she can choose her own plans. I'll have them carried out, whatever they are. All I have will be hers when I'm gone; for Elsa will not want it. She has a large fortune of her own, and her husband's is larger. If my life is spared it will be my happiness to plan for your children, Claud. Do you think you can be happy leading such a retired life—eh?"

"My happiness will be with Wynifred, wherever she is," was the tranquil answer. "I am not a boy, Fowler, and, as you know, my love has not been a fancy of an hour. She has told me that she is delighted at the idea of living here in the Combe; and, as for me—you know how I can enjoy myself in the country."

"I foresee a long useful life for you both," said Henry, as they slowly went indoors in response to the supper-bell and reluctantly shut out the spring moonlight. "I wish I could feel as sure about Elsa."

"Oh, that will be all right," said Claud, encouragingly. "What makes you despond about her?"

"I feel so uncertain of her. What Miss Ellen always said about her is so true. She has a most pronounced character of her own, but nobody as yet knows what it is. I am afraid her husband expects too much of her."

"Everyone who expects perfection in a woman must needs be disappointed," returned Claud. "He will get over it, and find out how to manage her. He is a dreamer, you know—an idealist, any bride must needs fall short of his requirements. He is in love with an abstraction, and there is something particularly concrete about Mrs. Percivale."

"There are some natures, I have heard of, that never trust again where their faith has been once shaken," said Henry, in a low voice. "I—I cannot consider Elsa reliable. She was not to be trusted as a child. I have a horrible suspicion that her husband would feel it terribly hard to forgive deceit."

"She will have no occasion to deceive him," said Claud soothingly. "He will allow her to do whatever she pleases."

"Well, I daresay I am wrong, I wish devoutly that I may be. But I have all along thought the marriage unsuitable. Of course, I foresaw it—from the moment when he saw her lying asleep in her aunt's room, the night we brought the news of her innocence. The circumstances were such as could not fail to attract such a romantic mind as his. And yet, Claud—yet—I wish things had fallen otherwise. She would have suited Allonby better."

Claud was thankful that Henry was ignorant of the fact which, even now, was causing him the gravest anxiety. If he, Fowler, the gentlest of men, could sorrowfully admit that Elsa was not to be trusted, it was somewhat agitating to reflect that she was probably even now in possession of a secret which the entire London public was burning with curiosity to know. Henry did not believe in the existence of a secret at all. He thought that it was merely gossip, the natural result of Percivale's odd habits and secluded life.

But suppose the entire facts were blazoned abroad—suppose the tale was in everybody's mouth!—Claud shrugged his shoulders. He had warned his friend, he could do no more. The sequel lay between the dainty hands of Percivale's wife. What would she do with it?