Their hopes were never higher than one evening about a week after their arrival, when they were all seated, as usual, in the open air, under a lime-tree on the lawn.  The sun was beginning to set, and the rain of golden sunlight fell over them through the green ambrosial foliage of the tree whose pale blossoms were still murmurous with bees.  Eric was leaning back in an easy chair, with Wildney sitting on the grass, cross-legged at his feet, while Montagu, resting on one of the mossy roots, read to them the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and the ladies were busy with their work.

“There—­stop now,” said Eric, “and let’s sit out and talk until we see some of ‘the fiery a’es and o’es of light’ which he talks of.”

“I’d no idea Shakspeare was such immensely jolly reading,” remarked Wildney naively.  “I shall take to reading him through when I get home.”

“Do you remember, Eric,” said Montagu, “how Rose used to chaff us in old days for our ignorance of literature, and how indignant we used to be when he asked if we’d ever heard of an obscure person called William Shakspeare?”

“Yes, very well,” answered Eric, laughing heartily.  And in this strain they continued to chat merrily, while the ladies enjoyed listening to their school-boy mirth.

“What a perfectly delicious evening.  It’s almost enough to make me wish to live,” said Eric.

He did not often speak thus; and it made them sad.  But Eric half sang, half murmured to himself, a hymn with which his mother’s sweet voice had made him familiar in their cottage-home at Ellan:—­

     “There is a calm for those who weep,
       A rest for weary pilgrims found;
     They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
       Low in the ground.

     “The storm that wrecks the winter sky,
       No more disturbs their deep repose,
     Than summer evening’s latest sigh
       That shuts the rose.”

The two last lines lingered pleasantly in his fancy and he murmured to himself again, in low tones—­

     “Than summer evening’s latest sigh
       That shuts the rose.”

“Oh hush, hush, Eric!” said Wildney, laying his hand upon his friend’s lips; “don’t let’s spoil to-night by forebodings.”

It seemed, indeed, a shame to do so, for it was almost an awful thing to be breathing the splendor of the transparent air, as the sun broadened and fell, and a faint violet glow floated over soft meadow and silver stream.  One might have fancied that the last rays of sunshine loved to linger over Eric’s face, now flushed with a hectic tinge of pleasure, and to light up sudden glories in his bright hair, which the wind just fanned off his forehead as he leaned back and inhaled the luxury of evening perfume, which the flowers of the garden poured on the gentle breeze.  Ah, how sad that such scenes should be so rare and so short-lived!

“Hark—­tirra-la-lirra-lirra!” said Wildney; “there goes the postman’s horn!  Shall I run and get the letter-bag as he passes the gate?”