The poet's latest volume, ahead of the autumn rush of poetry and fiction, had been favourably criticised.

It was stronger, happier, more real, said the critics, than any other from his pen.

If not great, said they, it was at any rate graceful, and even, in some places, vigorous. Therefore was the poet happy.

And Tommy--well, there was the sun and the wind, good red blood in his arteries, and no care in his heart--and though he could not have told you so, these, no doubt, were strong enough reasons for the buoyancy of his spirit.

As they climbed the green side of the downs they met a shepherd singing, a happy, irresponsible fellow, with his coat over his head, and his sleek flock browsing round him.

And as they pa.s.sed him with a welcome, the poet remembered some lines which he repeated to Tommy:

Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down, Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?

I could sing it fine, If e'er a word were mine, But there's no words could tell it you--the song that I would sing.

Wide horizons beckoning, far beyond the hill, Little lazy villages, sleeping in the vale, Greatness overhead The flock's contented tread An' trample o' the morning wind adown the open trail.

Bitter storms o' winter-time ringing down the range, Angel nights above the hill, beautiful with rest, I would sing o' Life, O' Enterprise, and Strife, O' Love along the upland road, an' G.o.d beyond the crest.

An' this should be my matin song--magic o' the down, Mystery, an' majesty, an' wistfulness, an' hope, I would sing the lay O' Destiny an' Day, As morning mounts the hill with me, an' summer storms the slope.

But this would be my vesper song--best at last is Peace Whispered where the valleys lie, all deep in dying gold, Stealing through the gloam To speed the shepherd home With one last dreamy echo o' the music in the fold.

Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down, Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?

I could sing it fine, If e'er a word were mine, But there's no words could tell it you--the song that I would sing.

"Jolly good," said Tommy, easiest of critics, and the poet smiled.

"Ah, Tommy," he said, "I wish you were a publisher."

Over the crest of the downs rose a thin wisp of blue smoke; and as they descended on the other side, some dark-eyed children looked out of a little brown tent.

They reminded the poet of Jasper and his company of Pharaoh's children, and he repeated to Tommy the conversation I have touched upon.

Tommy's eyes sparkled.

"That's good," he said, approvingly. "Just what a fellow feels, you know."

They walked on across the green springy turf, and for a time both were silent.

There was something, too, in the day and its purity that was speaking to Tommy.

Presently he spoke, hesitatingly.

"I--I was drunk last night, wasn't I?" he asked anxiously.

The poet affected not to have heard the question, but Tommy persisted.

"Yes."

Tommy sighed.

"I say," he said, after a pause, "I--I'd have licked that fellow hollow if my head hadn't been so jolly queer."

The poet looked at him, curiously.

"I expect you would," he said.

Tommy took a deep breath, and looked straight at the poet.

"I'll never touch it again--never," he said slowly.

They shook hands there on the hillside.

Thus it was, and for this reason, that Tommy took upon himself a vow that he has to my best belief never broken.

"Ah, but the motive?" you ask.

Well, maybe the shrug of your shoulder is justified, but, after all, the result was brought about by nature, who seldom errs, and to the poet, who, in spite of all, was really a simple soul--the result was abundantly gratifying.

As they walked home in the evening, Tommy turned to the poet.

"I say, what was it that gipsy fellow said--at the end, you know?"

"Dosta, we'll now go to the tent and put on the gloves, and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother."

Tommy looked grimly into the twilight.

"It would be a jolly good thing to teach that fellow at the Grange," he said, "only I'm blowed if I'll take any gloves."

XIII

IN WHICH THE POET PLUCKS A FOXGLOVE

Madge sat by the window, swinging disconsolate legs and struggling, with a nauseated heart, to master those Latin prepositions which govern the ablative case. A more degraded army she had never encountered, and though some misguided sage had committed them to rhyme, this device merely added a flavour of hypocrisy to their obvious malevolence.

Moreover, the whole universe appeared to be so disgustingly cheerful that the contrast was well nigh unbearable.

Beyond the open window the day was young and bright, and the honey bees sang briskly over the lawn.

Even the gardener, most dismal of men, was humming: "A few more years shall roll," a sure sign of unwonted buoyancy of spirit. Miss Gerald was writing some letters for Lady Chantrey in another room, and Madge was alone in the study.

Thus, every factor combined to make temptation almost irresistible.

And, naturally enough, it came, and in the guise of a well-known, long-agreed-on whistle.

From the laurels it rose, low and clear, and Madge's heart jumped quickly as she heard, for the whistle was Tommy's, and she could not remember how long ago it was since she had heard it.