"Mr. Pensax and Mr. George, I am sorry we have no ladies for you," said the hostess.

"We shall get on very well," said Mr. Pensax, in his complaining, half-falsetto voice.

And in we marched to the dining-room overlooking that bit of mossy lawn of which I have previously spoken, and which bit of mossy lawn overlooked, in its turn, the grand old classic river of the

west.

It was a rare dining-room, lighted by four Gothic windows. The ceiling was of carved oak, cut into a symmetry of design that was remarkably impressive. Nothing so much as that ceiling ever, in my mind, bore greater testimony to the truth of Montesquieu's remark that things which we see at one glance ought to have symmetry. There should be a symmetry which pleases the soul by the facility it gives her of taking in the whole object at once. It is worth an architect's while, even now, to take a long journey to see that marvellous old roof in the dining-hall of Wulstan Deanery. The walls were panelled in keeping with the ceiling and the fine old Gothic windows. Several of the larger panels were filled with rare oil paintings by the old masters. The floor was inlaid with two different colours of oak, and the centre of the room was covered with a dark Turkey carpet. There were Gothic fireplaces at each end of the room, with dogs on the hearthstones, and antiquated seats placed in the ingle-nooks-not for use, but to look cool and ornamental during the summer.

Although it was broad daylight there was quite a cloud of burning candles on the table and upon a vast sideboard of black oak, with quaint mirrors set in the back. The effect was singular. From the windows you could see the green banks of the river and the deep reflections that went down into the mysterious depths of the waters. The sunlight was excluded by outer blinds that fell over the windows, leaving only a glimpse of field and water to be seen through the lower panes. The artificial light fell upon three vases of exquisite flowers, giving them a peculiar and unaccustomed hue. They looked like the blossoms of some fairy land of perpetual sunshine. When we were seated, a servant drew down the outer blinds and closed the inner shutters. The change was somewhat theatrical in its effect, only that it was more perfect and impressive than anything of the kind I have ever seen on the stage. The dinner service (an old Chinese pattern, with blue and gold and dusky red in it) shone out, the silver sparkled, the flowers were filled with rich shadows, the pictures went back into mysterious recesses, and the ceiling retreated

as if it were a cloud-land of oak. I sat opposite Ruth Oswald. What a vision of loveliness she appeared to me then! I beheld her with an augmented delight, feeling for a moment that my presence here denoted that my case was not altogether hopeless.

When

My father

There was

Between this

I was thankful that a jar of roses intervened between us. we wished to see each other, we could. If we desired to screen our faces, the jar lent us its shadow. I did not care for the Dean's dinner. I had no appetite. Mr. Pensax, Mr. Molineau, and Mrs. Stamford concentrated their attention upon their plates. seemed to be well occupied. Ruth hardly ate anything. not much conversation over dinner. What there was chiefly had reference to cathedral restorations, stained windows, and the comparative power of the ancient and modern painters. discourse my eyes met Ruth's many times. What is that faint but unmistakable glow in a woman's face which is inspired by the presence of the man she loves? It is the merest indication of pleasure, the smallest expression of satisfaction-a glimmer of light which none can see but he for whom the blushing signal is intended. I am sure the gratitude of my soul made itself apparent in my eyes. A thrill of indescribable delight brought responsive blushes to my cheek. I knew she loved me. Even a sense of my own unworthiness could not blind me to the discovery which Ruth herself had made to me. I saw her heart in her dear, sweet face-saw her soul tremble on her lips, and I dared not speak, lest my voice should tremble and betray my emotion.

When the ladies withdrew I glided past Mr. Pensax and held the door. She went out last. Ruth, my beloved! She followed her sister. She knew that my eyes followed her, and that my heart went with her also. We both knew each other's secret. Love has a language of its own-a silent language which is never misunderstood.

When the dining-room door had closed I returned to the Dean's table, a different being. The discovery of the last half-hour seemed to cut me off from all companionship. I had suddenly reached the highest state of bliss. I loved, and was loved in return. The knowledge lifted me above all worldly considerations. I seemed all at once to be superior to any one in the room. I took part in the conversation with a self-confidence that astonished my father. The Dean complimented me, and said I should make my way. He gave me some excellent advice against expensive habits at college, mentioning the case of a young man whom he knew well, one whose whole life had been made miserable through the debts he had incurred

at college and through college acquaintances. Mr. Pensax tried to turn the conversation into another channel. In after years I understood why he did not care to hear the Dean hold forth upon such a theme.

It is strange what a mixture of earth and heaven there is in our composition. Now and then in this Valley of Poppies I have certain regretful reminiscences connected with the Deanery port. It was the finest glass of wine I ever tasted. I was always a moderate drinker, and from my earliest days was accustomed to good wine. A true palate for port must have its foundation laid in youth. There was a soft, oily, delicate quality in the Deanery port which left pleasant memories behind it for many a day. Once I drank port wine as a luxurious exercise, never more than half a dozen glasses at a time. I drink it now for my health's sake; and at this moment, so perverse is our earthly nature, the remembrance of the Deanery wine comes back to me, with the other happy recollections of the old days. I can only forgive myself for this profane touch of memory, in connection with my love, by reflecting that I never forget anything that is associated with Wulstan and the Dean, and more especially with that day when I sat down with Ruth at her father's table. Oh, blissful time! I hear the dreamy melodies that trickled from Ruth's fingers in the drawing room on that ever-memorable evening. I sat beside her. I saw her dear white hand wander over the keyboard, starting strains of music that made a present heaven of that well-remembered room.

Yes,

The Dean, Mr. Pensax, Mrs. Stamford, and my father sat down to a rubber at whist. Mr. Canon Molineau would look on. indeed, he preferred it. No, he would not play for worlds, when there were players so excellently matched. Perhaps he would cut in presently; yes, perhaps he would cut in presently. And all the time I was turning the leaves of a volume of Mendelssohn, and Ruth was telling me the story of her heart in the music, looking up into my eyes now and then, and making my happiness almost more than I could bear. I thought Miss Oswald's eyes were upon us once or twice, and Ruth felt the glance also. But there was neither surprise nor unkindness in the expression of Mary Oswald's face; and I thought there was an unaccustomed gentleness in her manner on this occasion. She asserted her position, and looked down from her moral and social height upon the guests; but there was a lady's gracefulness and refinement in her haughtiness.

At eleven o'clock Mrs. Stamford rose to go, and then the party broke up, my father and the Dean having scored a victory against Mrs. Stamford and Mr. Pensax, the Dean promising that there should be a return match on some other evening. His reverence

shook me warmly by the hand at parting, wished me God-speed, and gave me his gracious permission to use his name if ever it could be of service to me. Miss Oswald gave me a grand wish-you-well kind of adieu; and Ruth, my own dear Ruth, returned the secret pressure of my hand. I walked home through the college green, beneath the old elms, with my arm in my father's. The moon was shining gloriously. We passed through the parish churchyard, that being the shortest way home. We neither of us said much. My father was Occupied with his own reflections. When I reached home my father embraced me more affectionately, I thought, than usual. I hastened to my room without a light, locked the door, fell upon my knees, and cried like a child, but with such a throbbing sensation of thankfulness and joy that I never felt before nor since. Presently the moon shone full in at the windows; I lighted my candle; and slept the sleep of innocence and peace.

CHAPTER IX.

"A REMARKABLE CONVERSATION."

THE years seem to have gone with a marvellous rapidity, the years which I spent between Oxford and Wulstan. I was continually coming and going between one city and the other. The Dean showed me many marked favours. I was frequently invited to dine at his table, where I invariably met Mr. Erasmus Pensax, Mr. Molineau, and Mrs. Stamford. The Dean always appeared to have some special business with Mr. Pensax immediately before dinner. Miss Oswald always found an opportunity to offer an apologetic remark in the interest of Mr. Pensax; and Mr. Canon Molineau never failed, in his own peculiar way, morally to tread upon the briefless barrister's corns. My father, as usual, got interested in a game at whist, and I succeeded in being thrown into Ruth's society as much as possible. Her cousin Drayton, whom I had made up my mind to hate, turned out to be a harmless old boy, who lived a quiet, happy life as fellow of his college, amusing his leisure by railing

at women.

It was indeed a happy time, those years during which I oscillated between my college and Wulstan. Whenever an opportunity offered I was in the old city of my youth. The distance was not great from one city to the other. Nor is it now. The Valley of Poppies lies between the two. I visited both places a few weeks ago. I rode the Squire's cob into Wulstan. There is an old bookseller in the

High Street upon whom I occasionally call. His mind is stored with memories of Wulstan, and his shop with quaint old books. You go into the second-hand library through a pair of folding doors lighted with peculiar lumpy turbuncular glass. Once inside, you find the old bibliograph in some corner of the room, amidst a heap of books. He puts his head out of a literary pyramid, and you may talk to him as long as you please. It is not at all necessary that you should buy his books. He likes you just as much in the character of gossip as in that of buyer. I can sit before his musty shelves and dream myself back again to the days of that dinner party at the Dean's; for books and the old shop in the High Street are the only things that have not changed in Wulstan. The Cathedral is restored; the lichens and mosses are gone from every wall; the grey rounded stones of the western doorway are gone; the soft dreamy nooks and corners, fringed with grasses, are no more. Every stone is sharp and hard, every wall, every shaft and pillar white and new; and the air is filled with the noise of chisels and saws and mallets, and all the other clamour and din of restoration. The Deanery is changed; the rugged sandstone façade, furrowed with time, and looking like the calm face of some old poet sitting in the sun, is new and shining, as if a plane had been passed over it. The old-fashioned flowers are gone also; trim dwarf geraniums and small ornamental plants, such as stud the carefully-ordered modern garden-dotted lawn of the Squire, occupy the gillyflower and daisy beds. A yew tree, which filled up a dark, mysterious corner, is succeeded by a dwarf poplar, and the elms in the college green have been pruned within an inch of their existence.

I turn me from this modern Vandalism with a sigh of relief to my church in the valley, and to the remains of my old fountain with its rippling thread of pure water lying like a riband on the moss-grown pedestal. Come down, friendly Squire, from the hill, and let us talk of our youthful days. It fills my soul with sadness, the vanity of the world. If we were to read of a race of men who, having nothing to show in art or poetry equal to their predecessors, set to and railed at the past, and called it barbarous and dark, the satire would be pleasant to that sense of satirical humour which we all possess, though Le Sage especially credits the French with this faculty of the mind. Yet in this nineteenth century we look back upon the people of the middle ages with a kind of simpering pity for their ignorance and want of capacity, in spite of the glorious monuments which they have left us of their poetic taste, their inventive power, their architectural skill, and their scientific attainments.