the sky, a-sparkle with diamonds, beset with flowers--forget-me-nots, the tender lilac crocus of the autumn, yellow lilies on a pool where the Semois condescended for a moment to lie still. The woods were green as sycamores in May. A kingfisher swept by, tropically brilliant. On the purple mint at the water's edge a great butterfly sat poised, pivoting round the flower-head, stiffly opening and closing its gorgeous, downy wings of scarlet, black, and white.

"Talk to me of your beastly England!" said Gardiner, flat on his back in the grass. "A man can breathe here. Look at those trees--none of your spindly copses with the sky showing through on the other side, but good solid cut-and-come-again forest, for leagues on end! I could say my prayers to a forest."

"It's good fishin'," said Denis, more intent on his catch than on the scenery. The Ourthe may brag of its salmon, but the Semois has noble trout. "Better than it was at Grasmere."

"Oh, Grasmere...."

Gardiner's face was not expressive, but his voice told Denis that he was back among scenes which by common consent they had not mentioned before, and which Denis had no wish ever to mention again. He saw what he had brought on himself, and blessed his blundering tongue. Sure enough, after some pause the younger man asked:

"Did you ever hear any more of Mrs. Trent after I left?"

"A little, from Scott," Denis unwillingly admitted.

"From Scott? Did he write to you, then?"

"No, I saw him."

"Where? In town?"

"At Westby."

"You saw Scott at Westby?"

"I spent a week-end with him there last November," said Denis stiffly. "He asked me when we were at Easedale. He's a nice little chap. I like him."

"Well, I'm hanged!" said Gardiner, settling back his head, which he had lifted to stare at his friend. "You talk too much about your own affairs, Denis, that's what's the matter with you. Go on. What did he tell you about Mrs. Trent?"

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