of futile work."
"You're certainly sincere. You practise the virtues of laziness as well as preach them," said Honor without amusement.
"I do; but there's not that old note of admiration at my theories in your voice of late, my angel girl."
"No, Christo; I'm beginning to doubt, in a fleeting sort of way, if your gospel is quite the inspired thing you fancy it."
"Treason! You live too much in the atmosphere of honest toil, sweetheart. And there's hardly a butterfly left now to correct your impressions."
"No; they are all starving under leaves, poor things."
"Exactly—dying game; and the self-righteous ant is counting his stores—or is it the squirrel, or the dormouse? I know something or other hoards all the summer through to prolong his useless existence."
Honor did not answer. Then her lover suddenly remembered Myles, and his forehead wrinkled for a moment.
"Of course I'm not blind, Honor," he proceeded, in an altered tone. "I've seen the change these many days, and levelled a guess at the reason. Sobersides makes me look a weakling. Unfortunately he's such a real good chap I cannot be cross with him."
"Why should you be cross with anybody?"
"That's the question. You're the answer. I'm—I'm not exactly all I was to you. Don't clamour. It's true, and you know it's true. You're so exacting, so unrestful, so grave by fits lately. And he—he's always on your tongue too. You didn't know that, but it's the case. Natural perhaps—a strong personality, and so forth—yet—yet——"
"What nonsense this is, Christopher!"
"Of course it is. But you don't laugh. You never do laugh now. My own sober conviction is this; Stapledon's in love with you and doesn't know it. Don't fall off your pony."
"Christopher! You've no right, or reason, or shadow of a shade for saying such a ridiculous thing."
"There's that in your voice convinces me at this moment."
"Doesn't he know we're engaged? Would such a man allow himself for an instant——?"
"Of course he wouldn't. That's just what I argue, isn't it? He stops on here because he doesn't know what's happened to him yet, poor devil. When he finds out, he'll probably fly."
"You judge others by yourself, my dearest. Love! Why, he works too hard to waste his thoughts on any woman whatsoever. Never was a mind so seldom in the clouds."
"In the clouds—no; but on the earth—on the earth, and at your elbow."
"He's nothing of the kind."
"Well, then, you're always at his. Such a busy, bustling couple! I'm sure you're enough to make the very singing birds ashamed. When is he going?"
"When his money is laid out to his liking, I suppose. Not yet awhile, I hope."
"You don't want him to go?"
"Certainly I don't; why should I?"
"You admire him in a way?"
"In a great many ways. He's a restful man. There's a beautiful simplicity about his thoughts; and——"
"And he works?"
"You're trying to make me cross, Christo; but I don't think you will again."
"Ah! I have to thank him for that too! He's making you see how small it is to be cross with me. He's enlarging your mind, lifting it to the stars, burying it in the bogs, teaching you all about rainbows and tadpoles. He'll soak the sunshine out of your life if you're not careful; and then you'll grow as self-contained and sensible and perfect as he is."
"After which you won't want me any more, I suppose?"
"No—then you'd only be fit for—well, for him."
"I don't love you in these sneering moods, Christo. Why cannot you speak plainly? You've got some imaginary grievance. What is it?"
"I never said so. But—well, I have. I honestly believe I'm jealous—jealous of this superior man."
"You child!"
"There it is! It's come to that. I wasn't a child in your eyes a month ago. But I shall be called an infant in arms at this rate in another month."
"He can't help being a sensible, far-seeing man, any more than you can help being a——"
"Fool—say it; don't hesitate. Well, what then?"
Honor, despite her recent assertion, could still be angry with Christopher, because she loved him better than anything in the world. Her face flushed; she gathered her reins sharply.
"Then," she answered, "there's nothing more to be said—excepting that I'm a little tired of you to-day. We've seen too much of one another lately."
"Or too much of somebody else."
She wheeled away abruptly and galloped off, leaving him with the last word. One of her dogs, a big collie, stood irresolute, his left forepaw up, his eyes all doubt. Then he bent his great back like a bow, and bounded after his mistress; but Yeoland did not attempt to follow. He watched his lady awhile, and, when she was a quarter of a mile ahead, proceeded homewards.
She had chosen a winding way back to Bear Down, and he must pass the farm before she could return to it.
The man was perfectly calm to outward seeming, but he shook his head once or twice—shook it at his own folly.
"Poor little lass!" he said to himself. "Impatient—impatient—why? Because I was impatient, no doubt. Let me see—our first real quarrel since we were engaged."
As he went down the hill past Honor's home, a sudden fancy held him, and, acting upon it, he dismounted, hitched up his horse, and strolled round to the back of the house in hope that he might win a private word or two with Mark Endicott. Chance favoured him. Tea drinking was done, and the still, lonely hour following on that meal prevailed in the great kitchen. Without, spangled fowls clucked their last remarks for the day, and fluttered, with clumsy effort, to their perches in a great holly tree, where they roosted. At the open door a block, a bill-hook, and a leathern gauntlet lay beside a pile of split wood where Sally Cramphorn had been working; and upon the block a robin sat and sang.
Christopher lifted the latch and walked through a short passage to find Honor's uncle alone in the kitchen and talking to himself by snatches.
"Forgive me, Mr. Endicott," he said, breaking in upon the monologue; "I've no right to upset your reveries in this fashion, but I was passing and wanted a dozen words."
"And welcome, Yeoland. We've missed you at the Sunday supper of late weeks. How is it with you?"
"Oh, all right. Only just now I want to exchange ideas—impressions. You love my Honor better than anybody else in the world but myself. And love makes one jolly quick—sensitive—foolishly so perhaps. I didn't think it was in me to be sensitive; yet I find I am."
"Speak your mind, and I'll go on with my knitting—never blind man's holiday if you are a blind man, you know."
"You're like all the rest in this hive, always busy. I wonder if the drones blush when they're caught stealing honey?"
"Haven't much time for blushing. Yet 'tis certain that never drone stole sweeter honey than you have—if you are a drone."
"I'm coming to that. But the honey first. Frankly now, have you noticed any change in Honor of late days—since—well, within the last month or two."
Mr. Endicott reflected before making any answer, and tapped his needles slowly.
"There is a change," he said at length.
"She's restless," continued Christopher; "won't have her laugh out—stops in the middle, as if she suddenly remembered she was in church or somewhere. How d'you account for it?"
"She's grown a bit more strenuous since her engagement—more alive to the