to fill the empty triangles on each page with kisses, represented by triangles closely packed.  Bearing this important communication, Will walked out again into the night, and soon his letter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle.  He felt therein himself, half suspecting a note might await him, but there was nothing.  He hesitated for a moment, then climbed the gate into Monks Barton farmyard, went softly and stood in the dark shadow of the mill-house.  The moon shone full upon the face of the dwelling, and its three fruit-trees looked as though painted in profound black against the pale whitewash; while Phoebe’s dormer-window framed the splendour of the reflected sky, and shone very brightly.  The blind was down, and the maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Will pictured her as sobbing her heart out still.  Perhaps he would never see her again.  The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and through vast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be won.  He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned away and crossed the sleeping river.  He glanced down through dreaming glades and saw one motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the alders.  Sentiment was at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words under his breath. “‘Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin’ on his li’l island; poor lone devil wi’ never a mate to fight for nor friend to swim along with.  Worse case than mine, come to think on it!” Then an emotion, rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air and felt his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead.

Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and went softly up a creaking stair.  Loud and steady music came from the room where John Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it.  “’Tis the snore of a happy man with money in his purse,” he thought.  Then he stood by his mother’s door, which she always kept ajar at night, and peeped in upon her.  Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the coverlet, the other behind her head.  She was a handsome woman still, and looked younger than her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light.  “Muneshine do make dear mother so purty as a queen,” said Will to himself.  And he would never wish her “good-by,” perhaps never see her again.  He hastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking just to kiss the hand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and cried, “Who’s theer?” with sleepy voice.  Then she sat up and listened—­a fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap.  Her son had vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned and slept again.

Will entered his own chamber near at hand, doffed for ever the velveteen uniform of water-keeper, and brought from a drawer an old suit of corduroy.  Next he counted his slight store of money, set his ‘alarum’ for four o’clock, and, fifteen minutes later, was in bed and asleep, the time then being a little after midnight.