In the pleasant orchard-closes,
God bless all our gains say we—
But may God bless all our losses,
Better suits with our degree.
She dropped the marring fifth line, and repeated—
Better suits with our degree!
I saw her lean over the gallery, her linked hands white as pearl against the oak.
'Is that you—from the other side of the county?' she called.
'Yes, me—from the other side of the county,' I answered, laughing.
'What a long time before you had to come here again.' She ran down the stairs, one hand lightly touching the broad rail. 'It's two months and four days. Summer's gone!'
'I meant to come before, but Fate prevented.'
'I knew it. Please do something to that fire. They won't let me play with it, but I can feel it's behaving badly. Hit it!'
I looked on either side of the deep fireplace, and found but a half-charred hedge-stake with which I punched a black log into flame.
'It never goes out, day or night,' she said, as though explaining. 'In case any one comes in with cold toes, you see.'
'It's even lovelier inside than it was out,' I murmured. The red light poured itself along the age-polished dusky panels till the Tudor roses and lions of the gallery took colour and motion. An old eagle- topped convex mirror gathered the picture into its mysterious heart, distorting afresh
