Say aye, or no."

He looked up, smiling still, and went on,--"I fancy, Sir Peter, you, too, have your memories; you can recall some sweet face of your youth, for which you would have thought the world well lost; you can bring back the memory of some fragrant day when you and she looked forward with bright hopes to happy years that never were to be. A golden day; a golden day."

Sir Peter still stood by the fireplace, silent.

"And now this dear girl of yours--your niece--has strayed away from you, with the boy of her heart! But, how willingly,--how gladly, she would come back to you, and be yours again--as well as his, if you only opened your arms for her--and said the right words of welcome to her--and to him. She would come back and renew your faith in youth, and hope, and love, and all the beautiful things of this old earth--which we shall leave so soon; so soon, that every lost day should be mourned. Ah, yes!

I am sure she waits only for the welcoming words."

Mr. Rowlandson shook his head, slowly, as he concluded,--

"I am proud for myself, and sad for you, that I should be the one to launch his little book; the little book for which she was willing to sell her precious valentines. The little book may not set the Thames afire, but--ah! how the thought of it has kindled their young hearts."

Sir Peter turned from the fireplace and walked the length of the long library; then, slowly, back to the table again.

"You can take the check now, Rowlandson," he said, brokenly; "I shall go to her--and bring them home to-morrow."

He dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands; Mr.

Rowlandson turned to the fireplace. He drew from his pocketbook the note Phyllis had signed, and held it in the grate until it blazed. Then he puckered his mouth, curiously, as if trying to whistle. When he faced Sir Peter again, his blue eyes twinkled.

"You owe me a shilling for a new gla.s.s for my Charterhouse print," said he.

Ten minutes later, when Mr. Rowlandson left the house, Burbage opened the door. He carried a parcel that clinked, as he stepped out, briskly.

"Will you require anything further, Sir Peter?" asked Burbage.

"Yes. Have Miss Phyllis's little study-room, and the two adjoining bedrooms made ready, Burbage. My niece and her husband are coming home to-morrow."

X

As John lay between sleep and waking, the next morning, he was conscious that in a moment he would capture an elusive, happy thought.

He had it! The book could now be published!

While he dressed he sang an ancient ballad, at the top of his voice, to an air he improvised.

"Phillida was a fair maide As fresh as any flower; Whom Harpalus the herd-man praide To be his paramoure.

"Harpalus and eke Corin, Were herd-men both ysere; And Phillida would twist and spinne, And thereto sing ful clere.

"Phyllis!" cried John. "Can you hear in the bedroom? I sing of thee!"

"I thought her name was Phillida," said Phyllis, setting the bedroom door ajar.

"Phillida is Old English for Phyllis," he explained.

"Oh!" said Phyllis.

"But Phillida was al to coye, For Harpalus to winne; For Corin was her only joye, Who forst her not a pinne.

"How often would she flowers twine!

How often garlants make Of cowslips and of columbine; And all for Corin's sake.

"Harpalus prevayled nought, His labour all was lost; For he was farthest from her thought, And yet he loved her most.

"Phyllis! I say, Phyllis!" cried John, working his hairbrushes alternately. "I am Corin. Who was Harpalus?"

"You flatter yourself, sir," replied Phyllis "I am pining for Harpalus."

"Tell me his last name, then, that I may seek and slay him!" said John.

Between stanzas, John forgot the air, but he improvised anew, and sang on, regardless.

"'Oh, Harpalus!' thus would he say; Unhappiest under sunne!

The cause of thine unhappy daye, By love was first begunne.

"'But wel-a-way! that nature wrought Thee, Phillida, so faire: For I may say that I have bought Thy beauty al to deare.'"

"Cheer up, Harpalus!" Phyllis waved her hand through the half-open doorway. "Faint heart never won fair lady!"

"He is too far gone," said John. "Besides, I, Corin, have nine-tenths of the law on him.

"'O Cupide, graunt this my request, And do not stoppe thine eares.'"

The song ceased while John tugged at his collar. When the b.u.t.ton finally slipped in, he muttered:--

"There is a musical line for you? 'And do not stoppe thine eares.' I would rather have written that line than take Quebec.

"'O Cupide, graunt this my request, And do not stoppe thine eares, That she may feel within her breste The paines of my dispaire.'"

John ended upon a mournful quaver.

"Phillida has pangs of a different sort, thank you," said Phyllis, coming into the sitting-room. "Pangs of hunger. Good-morning, Genevieve.

Is breakfast served? Yes, indeed, it is a beautiful morning."

"Heartless creature!" said John. He was putting on his coat now.

"Good-morning, fair Genevieve. Wags the world well with you? M-m-m.

Doesn't the bacon smell good?"

"Poor Harpalus," said Phyllis, pouring tea. "I was very fond of Harpalus."

John's eyes were mischievous.

"Why didn't you propose to _him_, then?" he asked, accenting the second p.r.o.noun.