egg-powder, there was no eggs in the house," she said as she bustled out of the room.

Dimbie peeped at me and I peeped at Dimbie, and we both broke into suppressed laughter.

"I always said she was the most resourceful girl I had ever met."

"She is," I groaned; "and I thought it would be such a beautiful surprise to you."

"It was, dearest," he assured me; "never was so surprised at anything in my life."

I handed him my present and looked at him anxiously. Would this too be a disappointment? He had talked of pipe-racks so frequently—of the foolish construction of the ordinary rack, which, supporting the bowl of the pipe at the top, naturally encourages the evil-tasting nicotine to flow down the stem. This I had had made specially for him of the most beautiful fumed oak. The bowls of his pipes could now rest sensibly, the stems pointing skywards. His pleasure was unfeigned. He left his breakfast to hang it up and kiss me.

"How clever you are, Marg," he said. "How did you know?"

"You have sometimes mentioned it."

He laughed.

"I have derived a considerable amount of useful information from you one way or another. I may even become capable in the end."

"There's no knowing," he agreed.

Then we fell to making our plans for the day. It was not often that Dimbie took a holiday, we must make the most of it. We would cycle to some pine woods at Oxshott which we knew well and loved greatly. We would lunch there by the side of a little pool set in a hollow—Sleepy Hollow we called it. It would be warm there and sunny, for the trees had withdrawn to the right and left, and it was open to the sun and rain and wind of heaven. When we had rested we would go to a dingle where I knew primrose roots were to be found. What corner and nook and hidden by-way and bridle-path in our beautiful Surrey were unknown to me? I had flown to them from Peter. I had spent long days in the fields, on the commons, in the pine woods away from Peter. My bicycle was a friend in need. Peter couldn't cycle. Nothing short of a motor-car could catch me on my bicycle. Peter hadn't a motor-car. Motor-cars, bicycles, and truant girls were an invention of the devil. I would laugh in my sleeve, while Peter swore.

I am introducing Dimbie to a lot of my old haunts. Two on their travels are better than one.

Amelia packed our lunch and asked when we would be home.

"It is impossible to say," I told her. "When one rides away into the country or into a sunset or into a moonrise one may never return."

And Amelia stared as she does sometimes when I cannot keep the laughter and happiness out of my voice.

"There's the steak," she said.

"Cook it when we come in," I called as I followed Dimbie through the wooden gate—which is such a joy to me, as it might have been iron—and down the lane.

How glorious it was as we spun along the smooth, red roads, and felt the sun and wind on our faces, and breathed spring—for spring was everywhere!

"Go on in front, Marg," commanded Dimbie. "I want to look at the sun on your hair. It's like pure gold."

I humoured his fancy.

"I want to feel it," he called, "to stroke it, it looks quite hot. Let's stop for a rest."

We dismounted, and sat down on a bank.

"You won't ruffle it?" I said.

"No," he replied, "I'll be awfully careful."

Then he stroked the back of my head the wrong way, the dear old way he has always stroked it.

"I do love you, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing the nape of my neck. "There never was a Marguerite like mine."

It is at such moments that the tears come unbidden, tears of intense happiness.

Will Dimbie ever realise how much I love him? My words are few. I remember what Nanty said, although she has now recalled her advice. I don't seem to be able to let Dimbie know what he is to me. Human language is not sufficient, speech is so bald. Sometimes in the night, when he is asleep, I press my lips to his kinky hair, but I'm always afraid he will awake and find me out, and I whisper, "God, I thank Thee for Dimbie."

A lark was singing rapturously above us far away out of sight, a thrush was breathing forth liquid notes of silver, and a little golden gorse bush was giving of its best and sweetest to the inmates of the grassy lane.

What a beautiful thing is a lane in which the grass runs softly riotous. A street of pure gold, as it were transparent glass, was what St. John saw in his vision. To me such a street, hard and metallic, would be a disappointment. I want in my heaven cool, grassy lanes, soothing and comforting to tired feet.

"What a birthday!" said Dimbie. "I want always to stop at thirty-one, and sit on a bank with you and look at your hair in the sun, sweetheart."

"You'd get tired of it."

"Never," he vowed. "What a lucky thing it was for me your getting mixed up in that wire netting. Girls are very helpless."

"But they manage somehow to get out of their difficulties," I laughed, and we sat a little closer. "Marguerite," he said suddenly, "would you like a—child?"

I felt the colour rise to my cheeks as I shook my head.

He stooped and kissed me.

"I'm so glad," he whispered. "I wouldn't either. We don't want anyone but each other, do we?"

"Perhaps—some day," I faltered.

"Well, perhaps some day," he assented a little reluctantly. "People with children seem so beastly selfish to everybody but the children. They've no thought for anybody else, no interest. You say to 'em, 'My house was burnt down last night.' They look a little vague and reply, 'How unfortunate. Johnny has contracted measles.' Really anxious to impress them, you go on to tell them that your mother has just died from heart failure, and they say, 'How distressing. Mary has passed her matric.' You want to curse Mary, but you daren't. They represent all that is holy, all that is extraordinary (in their own eyes), all that is happiness; they are parents. You stand outside the door of the holy of holies. You know not the meaning of the words life, joy, fatherhood, motherhood. The sun and the moon only shine for them. The stars twinkle, and the flowers bloom, only for the children."