THE MARRIED LIFE OF
still together), they had returned to the ivy-mantled manor-house—all their own for days to come, with no fear of separation, no danger of interruption.
Here in the goodly Tudor hall, mellow with the tone of time, before the smoke-stained fireplace, guarded on either side by carved knights in armor, the lovers lingered as if reluctant to break the spell, gazing dreamily into the glowing embers, while outside the wind crooned caressingly about the mossy gables, and the rooks in the swaying fir-trees called to one another, their clamor—now faint, now clear—wafted by the wind.
He was seated in an immense oak chair of richly carved back, and she on a low stool at his feet, her fair head resting against his knee while he ran his fingers idly through her light-brown hair. He was smoking his pipe, for which she had held the match, as was her pretty custom. A bit of unfinished embroidery lay unnoticed at her side. It was all just as they had pictured it in the long ago, a dream come true. . . .
