John was silent a moment. Then he said suddenly-"Are you going over to Rome, Harry?"
"No!" And Brent's eyes looked full into those of his friend, straightly and steadfastly. "Not now. I will do the work appointed for me to the end!"
"Thank God!" said Walden, simply. And their hands met in a close grasp, thereby sealing a wordless compact, never to be broken.
The sun sank and the moon began to rise. Song and dance gradually ceased, and the happy villagers began to disperse, and wend their ways homeward. Love was in the air--love breathed in the perfume of the flowers--love tuned the throats of the passionate nightingales that warbled out their mating songs in every hazel copse and from ever acacia bough in the Manor woods, and love seemed, as the poet says, to 'sit astride o' the moon' as its silver orb peered over the gables of the Manor itself and poured a white shower of glory on the sweet face and delicate form of Maryllia, as she stood in the old Tudor courtyard, now a veritable wilderness of flowers, with her husband's arm round her, listening to the faint far-off singing of the villagers returning to their homes through the scented green lanes.
"Everyone has been happy to-day!" she said, looking up with a smile- -"All the world around us seems to thank God!"
"All the world would thank Him if it could but find what we have found!" answered John, drawing her close to his heart--"All it wants, all it needs, both for itself and others, for this world and the next, is simply--Love!"