As for John Mortimer, he returned to the town, musing over some turn in political affairs that pleased him, cogitating over the contents of a bill then under discussion in Parliament, wondering whether it would get much altered before the second reading, while all the time, half unconsciously to himself, the scene in that other Parliament was present to him.

Just as a scene; nothing more.  Emily sitting on his throne—­his! with his smallest child nestling in her arms, so satisfied, one knew not which of the two had the most assured air of possession.  Half unaware, he seemed to hear again the contented sighing of the little creature in her sleep, and Emily’s low, sweet laugh when she saw his astonishment at her presence.

Then there was the young American stepping forward through a narrow sunbeam into the brown shade to meet him, with such a shamefaced, boyish air of conscious delinquency.  Conscious, indeed, that he was the author of a certain commotion, but very far, assuredly, from being conscious that he, Gifford Crayshaw, by means of this schoolboy prank, was taking the decisive step towards a change in the destiny of every soul then bearing a part in it.

John Mortimer reached the town.  He had rallied the boy, and made him see his folly.  “A fine young fellow,” he reflected, “and full of fun.  I don’t care how often he comes here,” and so in thought he dismissed Crayshaw and his boyish escapade, to attend to more important matters.

Emily, as she went towards home, was soon overtaken by the twins, Johnnie, and Crayshaw.  Opposition being now withdrawn, the latter young gentleman had discovered that he ought to go with his brother, and was moderately good-tempered about it.  Johnnie Mortimer, on the other hand, was gloriously sulky, and declined to take any notice of his fellow-creatures, even when they spoke to him.

At the stepping-stones over the brook, Emily parted with the young people, receiving from Crayshaw the verses he had copied.

“Gladys had possessed them for a week, and liked them,” said the young poet.  “I meant one of them for a parody, but Mr. Mortimer said it was not half enough like for parody, it only amounted to a kind of honest plagiarism.”

Considering the crestfallen air of the author, and the sigh with which he parted from her and went his way to join his brother, she was rather surprised to find the sort of verses that they were.  They were copied in a neat, boyish hand, and read as follows:—­

     SOUVENIR OF SOUTH WALES.

     (A cad would thay “I thor.”)

     But once I saw her by the stream
       (A cad would say “I sor"),
     Yet ofttimes of that once I dream,
       That once and never more.

     By the fair flood she came to lean
       (Her gown was lilac print),
     And dip her pitcher down between
       The stalks of water-mint.

     Then shoals of little fishes fled,
       And sun-flecks danced amain,
     And rings of water spread and spread
       Till all was smooth again.