“Yes, old chap, yes,” nodded Bellew, “until the Money Moon comes.”

And so there fell a silence between them, yet a silence that held a wondrous charm of its own; a silence that lasted so long that the coppery curls drooped lower, and lower upon Bellew’s arm, until Anthea, sighing, rose, and in a very tender voice bade Small Porges say ‘Goodnight!’ the which he did, forthwith, slumberous of voice, and sleepy eyed, and so, with his hand in Anthea’s, went drowsily up to bed.

Wherefore, seeing that Miss Priscilla had bustled away into the kitchen, Bellew sauntered out into the rose-garden to look upon the beauty of the night.  The warm air was fragrant with dewy scents, and the moon, already high above the tree-tops, poured down her gentle radiance upon the quaint, old garden with its winding walks, and clipped yew hedges, while upon the quiet, from the dim shadow of the distant woods, stole the soft, sweet song of a nightingale.

Bellew walked a path bordered with flowers, and checkered with silver patches of moon-light, drinking in the thousand beauties about him, staring up at the glory of the moon, the indigo of the sky, and listening to the voice of the lonely singer in the wood.  And yet it was of none of these he was thinking as he paused under the shadow of “King Arthur,”—­nor of Small Porges, nor of any one or anything in this world but only of the sudden, light touch of a warm, soft hand upon his.  “Be that you, sir?” Bellew started and now he found that he had been sitting, all this while, with an empty pipe between his teeth, yet content therewith; wherefore he shook his head, and wondered.

“Be that you, Mr. Beloo, sir?”

“Yes Adam, it is I.”

“Ah! an’ how might you be feelin’ now—­arter your exercise wi’ the pitch-fork, sir?”

“Very fit, I thank you, Adam.  Sit down, and smoke, and let us converse together.”

“Why thankee sir,” answered Adam, producing the small, black clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket, and accepting Bellew’s proffered pouch.  “I’ve been up to the ‘ouse a visitin’ Prudence, the cook,—­an’ a rare cook she be, too, Mr. Beloo sir!”

“And a rare buxom girl into the bargain, Adam!”

“Oh, ah!—­she’s well enough, sir; I won’t go for to deny as she’s a fine, up-standing, well-shaped, tall, an’ proper figure of a woman as ever was, sir,—­though the Kentish lasses be a tidy lot, Mr. Beloo sir.  But, Lord! when you come to think of her gift for Yorkshire Puddin’, likewise jam-rollers, and seed-cake,—­(which, though mentioned last, ain’t by no manner o’ means least),—­when you come to think of her brew o’ ale, an’ cider, an’ ginger wine,—­why then—­I’m took, sir, I’m took altogether, an’ the ‘Old Adam’ inside o’ me works hisself into such a state that if another chap—­’specially that there Job Jagway gets lookin’ her way too often, why it’s got to get took out o’ him, or took out o’ me in good ’ard knocks, Mr. Belloo, sir.”