"Aye, most likely, for 't is surely a day o' glory, lad, a glory as is a-shining at me this moment out o' your eyes, Peregrine, singing in your voice—"
"Jeremy," said I, reaching out to grasp his grimy hand, "O Jeremy, you are right. Love found me in the dawn and this morning Diana promised to be my—wife. God make me worthy!"
"Amen, lad, amen!" said the Tinker.
And then from the shade of the willows that bordered the stream limped the small and shabby yet stately form of Lord Wyvelstoke.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE NOBLE ART OF ORGAN-PLAYING
Catching sight of me as I hurried towards him, Lord Wyvelstoke advanced, a vigorous man despite his lameness and silvery hair.
"Peregrine—who was it?" he enquired, slipping his hand within my arm and glancing round the glade. "Who was it sang so divinely—can it be, is it—our Diana? But of course it is—"
"Yes, sir," said I, wondering at his eagerness.
"She has a peerless, a wonderful voice, but more—she sings with that divine intuition that is genius. I must speak with her—meantime, pray present your friend."